Keep Your Enemies Closer
by Ryuuko1
Summary: "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer." But how close is -too- close, where the emotion changes from enmity into something...else?
1. Tournament

**Author**: I don't...well...the only things I can really say is, "bring it!"

**Warnings:** Slash. Yes...yes, you read that right. Violence, language, politics.

**Disclaimer**: I am a poor graduate student. If I owned World of Warcraft and all things affiliated, I would not be one.

**Chapter 1**

Varian wasn't stupid. He might not be _brilliant_ or _tactical_ or any of those things that people seemed to prize, but he wasn't a complete idiot. He was a man of action, of _doing,_ and was _not_ content to be sitting around playing nice with his enemies under the pretense of peace.

He saw things that people thought he was blind to—like Jaina's odd _relationship_ with Thrall, and how it had gone far beyond 'just friends', but let them continue to think he oblivious. He already thought Jaina slightly crazy, lost in her books as she was, and her intimacy with the Warchief just soundly confirmed that fact—he considered her a lost cause, no matter how much he had desired her in the past.

He had learned many things in the gladiatorial ring, and was surprised just how often he had to put them into use in court. In a way, he thought that the savagery of the gladiatorial rings was somehow _less_ ferocious than the political maneuvering and backstabbing he encountered amongst the nobles. When he had fought, it had been purer, more straightforward, and almost cathartic. Sometimes he wanted to go back to that life of struggling to survive by strength and wits, instead of all the words and hidden agendas he was dealing with now that he was the King of Stormwind. Well, now that he was a complete person and the King. _Varian_ had always been the King, but with _Lo'Gosh_ in the mix now...well, he was a different man, and Lo'Gosh was dealing with some very jarring changes.

Being the King of Stormwind also meant that he was thrown, time and again, into contact with the races he _despised_, which drove him up a wall. He wanted to do nothing more than raze Orgirmmar, claim the Warchief's head, and retire to a life of glory.

Unfortunately, it seemed as if some Power out there _somewhere_ seemed intent on making his life miserable by keeping his existence entwined with the orcs in such a manner that he _couldn't _just kill them all and have it done with. He'd even settle for shoving them all back through the Dark Portal and slamming it shut behind them. Just to have them _gone_.

So he found himself—_again—_on the Argent Tournament grounds, watching critically to find the best fighters amongst the heroes of the Alliance, the Horde races and its leaders _so damn close_ and he couldn't even—

"Varian."

He gritted his teeth at the subtle reproach in Jaina's voice. The woman had learned to read him _far_ too well—if he didn't like her and if she wasn't important to him and the Alliance, he wouldn't set foot _near_ her. "Yes?" he half-growled.

The tone that would make other people take two steps back merely made the Lady roll her eyes. "May I remind you that this is neutral ground? A sanctuary?"

"And need I remind you that this is a pointless exercise in frivolity?" Varian replied.

She frowned, but said nothing.

"We are _right at the Lich King's doorstep!_" Varian spat. "And yet, here we are, letting him see what champions we have at our call!"

"Do you think it might be motivation?" Jaina posed, although there was the slightest dryness to her voice that told him she thought it equally ill-advised.

_Idealists, _he sneered inwardly. _They see nothing but their shining goal, not the realities and necessities and—_

"My Lord?"

Varian scowled at the ground before he turned to face the Argent Crusade peon that stood at a respectful distance from him. "What?"

"Your presence is requested," the young man told him and the frown Varian turned on him earned the Alliance leader nothing more than a slight tremor in the peon's posture.

"Well, then," the King of Stormwind said and took a few steps in the direction the squire had obviously come from, the young soldier catching up with him quickly. It was better to get whatever stupidity he would be encountering over with.

"What do they want from me _now_?" he half-asked, half-demanded.

He was, perhaps, more terse with the soldier than he should have been, but he had been sleeping poorly of late, memories of a childhood with Arthas and the presence of the Horde driving him to distraction.

He heard gruff laughter and orcish voices drift to him from another part of the complex and his hands tightened into fists. Their proximity was intolerable. How could he think clearly with them so near at hand? They were his _enemies—_the ones who had razed Stormwind to the ground and deprived him of his father and mentor, had thrown him into gladiatorial rings time and again just for their amusement, had harbored the evil that killed Bolvar...they needed to be eliminated, but no-one would let him do what _needed_ to be done!

"My Lord?"

Varian hadn't realized that he had stopped walking, his gaze and body turned in the direction of the vulgar Orcish voices. He reluctantly fought down his knee-jerk impulse to find the members of the Horde and drive them away, grunted a semi-apology, and gestured for the young man to lead on as he followed just a step behind.

What had made him stop wasn't the variety of voices speaking Orcish, it was one in particular, one that made his blood boil, that had halted him in his tracks.

_Garrosh,_ he thought darkly. Somehow, the brown-skinned monster had worked his way under Varian's skin, and even the smallest glance sent Varian seething. It was a visceral reaction, one that went far beyond his usual disdain and hatred for the orcs. It was mildly unsettling, but didn't matter. One day, he would attend to the Horde and settle things for good—hopefully sooner rather than later—and Garrosh would be the first one to go.

He didn't bother making idle chit-chat with the young man leading him—what was the point? He wouldn't say anything interesting—Varian had found that idealists were poor conversation if you got them going on their current crusade, but they unfortunately spoke of little else. He preferred the silence anyway, as it let him pay attention to things that he would otherwise miss.

Around him, champions of various races, genders, and classes gathered to prove themselves in combat against other members of their own faction as well as those of the opposite.

_At least they got _that_ much right,_ Varian thought. _If they had kept it just within each particular faction, it would have been disastrous. One has to know one's enemy to fight them._

While the manner in which they combatted each other was baffling to the man—when would they ever use what they were doing in a _real_ fight?—it was nonetheless mildly acceptable, especially since it gave at least a glimmer of where the enemy's strengths and weaknesses lie. If only it weren't _right underneath the Lich King's nose_, he wouldn't mind it all that much.

They reached their destination quickly enough and Varian didn't bother to smother a growl of exasperation. He was _tired_ of being diplomatic, and they had come to a chamber where he would _have_ to be—it was where the Argent Crusade held their tactical meetings. Sometimes they even included the faction leaders, so that they weren't entirely in the dark about the happenings with the Lich King, as they and the Knights of the Ebon Blade were the ones who ran the offensive in Icecrown.

The thought of the Knights made him sigh inwardly—sure, Tirion vouched for them, and he trusted the man's judgment, but they were _still Scourge._ Their methods were unorthodox and disgusting, lacking all emotion and remorse. He rated them higher than the Horde only because of Tirion's seal of approval. Otherwise, he would have never let them back into the Alliance.

As he entered the command center, he was both relieved and annoyed that Horde representatives weren't in attendance. Perhaps it was for the best, though—nothing would get done if he and Garrosh were a hair's-breadth away from killing each other.

Although it would certainly make the meeting more interesting.

Sitting through the usual pointless tactical meeting bored Varian, and as he had no real way of distracting himself during the proceedings, he settled for scowling and looking imposing enough that people wouldn't bother to ask his opinion—everyone knew it, anyway. He would let others do the planning and, once their plans were in action, he'd pick up the pieces that had resulted from their plan's failure and actually _lead._ Varian was _very_ good at thinking on his feet. It was the long-term and possibilities that he left to Jaina and her ilk.

Varian watched the dance of tiny figures on the map with displeasure, hating how his men were dehumanized to become nothing more than pawns on a board to be moved around at command. Oh, he _did_ demanded their obedience to his judgment, but it grated against him in some way to see them as nothing more than shapes.

"...Wrynn?"

Varian snapped out of his brooding at the direct address of himself and he looked at the speaker—one of the people from the Argent Crusade.

"Yes?" he replied gruffly. He wanted to get _out_ of this stuffy room full of equally stuffy people.  
"I was asking if you would be interested in participating in one of our tournaments."

_That_ caught the king's attention. "Oh?" he asked, the woman now having his full attention.

The crusader nodded slightly. "Members of both the Horde and the Alliance would be participating. We figured it would be worthwhile to open it to the leaders as well."

Varian smiled slowly, the gesture almost wolfish. "I will play your game."

The crusader nodded. "Very well, then. The tournament begins tomorrow."

"Who else is participating?"

The crusader smiled faintly. "You will not know until you are in the match."

_That_ intrigued Varian. It was _annoying_, as he couldn't prepare, but it was the lack of that capability that made it exciting. His life had been too boring of late, he hadn't had any _challenges_.

_We have more than enough challenges at home._

_Not _this_ kind of challenge. We've missed it—we are called to defend our people with our arms, not pussy-foot around the Horde creatures in hopes of 'peace'._

_This is true, but remember what happened last time when we focused solely on protecting our people through our prowess with our blade?_

The reminder of Onyxia and her machinations made him furious.

_Still._

_Yes, it will still be good._

Varian found himself able to get through the rest of the meeting without pointing out how stupid the crusade was being at having the tournament ground set up in the Lich King's backyard. _Especially_ once he remembered that both Horde and Alliance _leaders_ could participate—which meant that Garrosh would most likely be participating as well.

_He had best not lose to anyone._

_He will not. Not until he faces us._

The thought made Varian oddly excited.

"You're really looking forward to this, aren't you?" Jaina murmured quietly to him.

Varian blinked and looked at Jaina before giving her a fierce grin that made her sigh.

"Men," she grumbled. "A blind tournament sounds interesting, though."

"Blind tournament?"

"What you've entered yourself into. The participants can't watch other's bouts, standings aren't announced, you're not told who you'll be facing next. It's inevitable that all the participants will learn who each other are, but that's the extent of it—well, that's _supposed_ to be the extent of it."

It was _intriguing_ and made Varian's hands itch. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

Until then, however, he had to deal with politicking and being all kingly, and so reluctantly settled back into his duties, mind never quite on what was happening, and more on what the next day would bring.

–

The day was bitterly cold and gray, the clouds low and heavy, but Varian didn't mind it in the slightest. He had fought in some of the worst conditions imaginable—surely this would be no different. In fact, he relished how his weapons stung against his hands as he sought to warm himself up, as it wasn't something he was entirely familiar with—which made it thrilling. He knew that he wouldn't be using his sword, it being a tournament and all, not a gladiatorial match, but it was the best way he knew to loosen himself up.

His blood was already running hot at the prospect of a good fight, and it _was_ true that none of the participants knew who each other were. They were being kept somewhere separate that the crusade had managed to construct that kept them all apart and unable to overhear anyone else. It was an interesting feat of magic that he was sure Jaina was _very_ interested in—if she wasn't occupied with the Warchief.

It also made him feel slightly like a horse or some kind of wild animal, which was grating. He fought that emotion down with the knowledge that, eventually, he'd face off with Garrosh—because Garrosh would not lose.

Not until him.

A peon of the Crusade entered where Varian was relaxing and gave him a small bow. "Your match, my lord."

_Finally._

"Lead on," Varian said, the squire obviously surprised by the good humor in Varian's voice.

Varian was lead out into the courtyard, and the peon turned to him and gave him a stern look.

"There will be no deaths today."

It was an annoying restriction, but Varian understood its necessity. "I know." It would be hard to kill anyone using a blunt pole, but Varian figured that he could find a way to do it. Not that he would. He had given his word afterall.

Just as Varian was about to hand over his sword, the peon said, "There's no need, my Lord."

Varian's eyebrows snapped up. "What?"

"There will be no jousting in this tournament."

Exhilaration ran through Varian at the announcement. "Then it is a fight?"

"Yes."

If Varian were a lesser man, he would have cheered, but since he had an image to maintain, he had to constrain himself to a savage grin. "Well, then," he half-purred, "let's get this started."

He walked out into the ring and gave the gnome that was waiting a rather wary look. Gnomes were hard for him to hit, and ferocious little creatures, but he knew that if he _did_ manage to get in a hit that the match would be over. He supposed that it would be a good warm-up.

It was, indeed, quite the warm-up. The gnome obviously was skilled in taking down opponents much larger than herself, and was alarmingly fast. He was distantly amused to find that she was using her height to her advantage, striking at places on his lower legs that would cripple him if she got in a valid hit. He had to keep moving to prevent her from getting in a solid hit, getting in quite the workout, having to watch her as well as her blade. He figured that was how she tired out her opponents before cutting them down, but Varian hadn't survived for so long to not gain a few skills against those much shorter than he.

He ended up winning not through his sword at all, but through a rather lucky kick that sent the small female careening across the ring, to tumble across the ground once she landed, obviously stunned. The match was called when she couldn't get up again, and Varian emerged victorious to a cheering crowd of spectators. Their presence was both a thrill and an anxiety—they felt strongly for him, and that gave him energy, but he also had enough bad memories associated with crowds that he was shamefully glad to be lead away.

The next time he emerged, he found himself facing a troll, which made his heart race and his face pull into a savage grin.

_Not an orc, but better than another Alliance race._

Trolls were savage creatures, some of the most ferocious fighters he had ever come across—and therefore, worth his time and skill. The male before him was a tribute to his race, cunning and ruthless in his attacks. The male's rather gangly physique gave him a reach advantage over Varian, but that should have also left more openings for Varian to exploit. It both amused and annoyed the king that the troll obviously knew how to handle himself against a human opponent, but he figured that the fun would be lost if things were _too_ easy.

Varian ducked under a strike and came up with quickly, seeing a minuscule opening. His sword quickly flashed up and came with the flat-side onto the troll's wrist. Varian heard a satisfying snap, and the troll's weapon dropped from a hand that was no longer able to support the weight of the blade.

It took all of Varian's self-control to not follow the disarm with a mortal wound, but the peon crying out the end of the match made the decision easier.

He got a rather nasty look from a healer, but ignored it as he was lead off the field, giving the spectators a lazy, confident wave.

One of the first things he had learned in the ring was to _never_ show weakness.

He next found himself facing a female Draenei, her calm, softly glowing eyes meeting his. She gave him a cocky half-smile and nodded before the match began in earnest.

Varian had learned to respect the good-twins of the Eredar, their unwavering strength an asset to the Alliance. Now he had a glimpse into what exactly that strength _meant_. The rather delicate-looking female wielded her polearm with a deftness that said that its weight was easily borne by her. She wasn't as fast as the gnome or as cunning as the troll, but provided her own challenge from the reach of her weapon and her unfamiliar technique. In the end, her alien physique was her undoing, as Varian managed to hit a spot that would have been merely an annoyance on a typical Azerothian race, but which made her crumple with a whimper of pain.

He made a mental note as he was lead away from the ring, figuring that it was a good thing to know, just in case he ever got on the bad side of one of the good Eredar.

A male Tauren was his next opponent, and he didn't bother to hide the smirk that formed on his face. Lo'Gosh had a healthy respect for Tauren, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't use every trick he had to win. The battles were getting markedly harder each time he faced an opponent, and the heavy blows coming from his opponent made his entire body vibrate. Varian grit his teeth as a strike from the Tauren sent him staggering backwards, needing to recover quickly to prevent the creature from following up the advantage. He ducked and swerved under the powerful motions, dancing around the bovine-looking biped, knowing that should a hit actually land that it would daze him and end the match in his embarrassment. However, Varian was faster, which was what eventually landed him his victory, a series of three lightning-fast strikes bringing him success against the large male.

A female troll was his next opponent, and Varian was immediately wary after her cackling, gleeful laugh greeted him. The show of confidence was either hiding a weakness or declaring her casual disdain for him. One was good—the other, not so much.

As soon as the ring was cleared, the match began.

Varian enjoyed every moment of it.

The female fought using _just_-barely legal techniques that forced Varian to pull out some rather dirty tricks of his own. The king was distantly surprised that no-one called the match based on all the rules they bent to almost-breaking, but wasn't about to complain. It took him using a particularly nasty trick to pull out a victory, and the female was obviously pleasantly startled when she found herself at Varian's mercy. She gave him a rather feral grin and said something in Troll as she was lead off the field, Varian turning away from her, but not before he caught the rude gesture she turned his way out of the corner of his eye.

He was getting mildly annoyed at the thought that Garrosh may have lost to someone other than he, considering how much time and how many matches he had worked his way through. He was brooding, scowling at the ground when the peon entered once more.

"My Lord?'

Varian looked up and stood. "Another match?" he inquired, much less enthusiastic then when he had started.

The peon nodded and lead him back into the ring.

Varian exited to see the orc he had been waiting for staring back at him.

"Yessss," he hissed quietly, earning a wary look from the peon that was leaving the field.

The match started once it was just he and Garrosh in the ring, neither of them bothering to pay attention to whatever anyone else was saying. Varian had been _itching_ to get to the orc. Too many times had others come between he and Garrosh, and this time—although with regrettable supervision—he could finally put the monster in his place.

It felt _good_ to be fighting Hellscream. He delighted in the challenge the orc gave him—it made his blood sing, gave him a glorious rush of energy and power and made him feel _alive._

Although...it was a little _odd_, how each ringing sword stroke made his heart beat a little faster, that he could appreciate how the creature fought, that each time they got just a tad too close, little thrills tremored through him and spurred him on. He tried to dismiss it as he had found a worthy opponent, but, after all the previous fights, all the easy victories, that he was drawing this one out, and how it felt _different_...

_What's making it different?_ He wondered as he parried a strike from the mud-skinned orc. Every fight he had engaged in with other orcs—even with _Thrall—_hadn't felt as...exhilarating...as the one he was participating in.

His repose was blocked and the fight continued, a slow, deadly dance of skill and hate. Varian's heavy breaths formed fog before his face, a wolfish grin on his lips. The chill of his armor against his face, the heavy blows that he felt to his bones, the equal intensity he met in his opponent filled Varian with a savage glee, a kind of which he hadn't felt in quite some time.

It was a wonderful feeling, but there was something beneath it, something darker and hotter that Varian couldn't quite name and was unsure that he wanted to.

It was only once he was body-to-body with the orc, their weapons locked together in a fight to prove whose strength was superior that the full force and implication of the deeper emotion hit him.

Some kind of look must have passed on his face, for Garrosh grinned.

"Afraid of me, worm?" the orc taunted.

Too many emotions for Varian to even attempt naming went flooding through him, and he replied in a voice that was dripping with equal parts loathing and rage: "Afraid of you? _Never_."

He disengaged the orc, kicking him back, just barely ducking under the blade of his opponent's weapon.

He hated what had overwhelmed him, and turned that hate on Garrosh, made it useful. The ferocity of his attacks seemed to catch the orc off-guard, and the aberration appeared to struggle to keep up.

_It's __wrong__,_ he thought as he struck again and again, forcing Garrosh on the defensive. The orc recovered from his initial surprise and the battle became all the more heated, every blow forcing more energy and rage into Varian, powered his attacks and made whatever hits Garrosh got in seem insignificant.

In the end, however, Varian and Garrosh thought too much alike, and the fight ended in a tie as each embedded the other in the opposite wall from the force of their attacks.

Once Varian had recovered from seeing stars, he pushed the healers who attempted to tend to him away, picked up his sword, glared across the ring at the orc who was regarding him with equal bile, then stalked out. He didn't _care_ if he ended up forfeiting the match, he was _done_ with being in the monster's presence and _far _too angry to force himself civil for further matches, if there were going to be any.

_We're insane!_ He berated himself.

He was glad no-one stopped him as he stalked to the noble's quarter, where he was temporarily housed.

_He _is_ one of only three people who have the abilities to defeat us._

_Arthas doesn't count._

_Then two._

_This is not a good situation no matter what!_

Varian shook himself and forced himself to place his sword gently away.

_This will pass._

_It will _have_ to. We can't afford it, as a king, man, or father._

Varian rubbed his temples carefully with his armored fingers. _Maybe we just need to get away from Northrend. Away from _them.

_We _do_ have more than enough to tend to at home. The Defias, the strain of the war on our people, Twilight's Hammer..._

Varian grimaced. _But there's the Lich King._

_There is Arthas._

Varian scowled and took off his gloves. _Traitor._

"Varian?"

Varian turned to face the woman who stood in the entryway, a frown marring her pretty face. "What?" he growled.

"What happened?"

"What inevitably will happen when I fight one of those _things_."

"Varian, they're not—"

"We're _not_ going to do this again. I hate them as much as you seem to be..._fascinated_...by them."

The way he said 'fascinated' made Jaina's eyes narrow.

"Because the match was a tie, they're thinking of having a rematch," Jaina said carefully.

"No," Varian answered flatly, finality in his voice.

"It's not like you to back down from a fight."

"I would find a way to kill him, ensorceled weapons or no."

Jaina gave him a wary, considering look. "You would, wouldn't you?" she sighed.

Varian could feel the rage and energy slowly draining out of him, he looking at his sword, fighting to keep himself from picking it up, finding Garrosh, and ending him and the problems he engendered once and for all.

However, the issues that action would generate were ones that were a little too much for Varian to handle with all the other concerns he had to deal with.

_We wouldn't regret it, though._

"What makes you hate him so much?" Jaina asked, curious.

"I hate _all_ his kind," Varian answered dryly.

"But him more than others."

"Does it matter?" Varian snapped. "_He_ is exactly like all the orcs that tormented me. Every time I even _think_ about him I want to strangle him."

"But not Thrall?"

Varian looked at the mage incredulously. "I'd kill him, too. You saw what he allowed to develop under his very nose—anyone who will allow demons and Scourge to run rampant is insane and needs to be put down before the insane catches."

Jaina frowned deeply. "Then what are you, for allowing the Knights of the Ebon Blade?"

Varian sighed, the last vestiges of energy fading from his limbs. "Tirion Fordring is a great man. I trust his judgment. If there hadn't been a hint of him hanging around Thassarian and he hadn't contained a letter from the paladin, he and his kind would _never_ have been let back into the Alliance."

Varian paused, then said, "I'm returning to Stormwind."

"What? So suddenly?"

"My people need me, Jaina. The war has put a strain on Stormwind's resources, and I don't have soldiers to spare for Westfall _or_ Duskwood, both which are places badly in need of Stormwind's presence."

"Ending the war with the Lich King would be the fastest way to send the heroes back home where they could be of use."

"_I_ am achieving nothing by watching over the tournaments. I have capable commanders here that represent Stormwind's interests who can contact me at a moment's notice. Duskwood, Redridge, Westfall, Elwynn..._Stormwind_ territories need my intervention. The Defias run rampant in Elwynn and Westfall, orcs have taken up residence in Redridge, worgen and dark creatures have made their homes in Duskwood..."

Varian rubbed his eyes in exasperation. "I want to take down Arthas. Very, _very_ badly. But I cannot do that if I don't have support from my people. I need money to make an army, to build ships and outfit and employ soldiers, and that requires that I tax my people. I fear the taxes may have become too much recently, and if I try to drain the nobles any more than I already am, I'll have a revolution on my hands—from either the common folk _or_ the nobles. Perhaps even both. A state in turmoil is ripe for invasion."

It was times like these that he _really_ missed Bolvar, for the man had helped run his country in his absence—even _if_ Onyxia had been calling most of the shots, which was a whole other issue. To have a black dragon in his very court!

Jaina was looking at him thoughtfully. "Sometimes you _do_ behave like a king. I often forget that you are until you pull something like this."

Varian scowled.

_It's true—Lo'Gosh isn't a King, but Varian is. Lo'Gosh needs to learn to let Varian take control _sometimes.

"Jaina. Are you done bothering me?" the reminder of what he had waiting for him at home as well as the previous battle with Garrosh had left him with a massive headache and a strong desire to lie down until he had recovered his composure and energy. Or could at least put up a convincing facade for the others in the Tournament grounds.

He was badass, but he was also mortal.

The mage tilted her head to the side in thought, a small frown marring her features. "Who do you want to take back with you?"

Varian sat down, using the action to smother a sigh. "No-one."

Jaina frowned. "That's a little dangerous."

"Considering how well I was kept safe when I was with a full contingent of protectors, I can't see how it's any more dangerous," Varian replied dryly.

Jaina winced at the reminder, then sighed. "But, _Varian_, the Alliance _needs_ you. You can't do something so unsafe."

Varian shook his head sharply. "Even though I say no-one, soldiers and others need to return to the mainland as well. I will not be without people around me. And anyway, some of the adventurers might be more adept at keeping me safe than those who were trained for that purpose."

A wry smile flitted across Jaina's face. "I hate it, but you might be right."

Varian interlaced his fingers and placed his chin atop them, looking at Jaina critically. "I plan on heading out tomorrow."

"I'll get things in order here." She paused and her eyes narrowed. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," Varian answered, perhaps a little more sharply than needed.

Jaina's thumb ran lightly, pensively, over a rune on her mage's staff. "If you say so. Just..."

"Trust me, if anything goes wrong, you will probably be the first to know," Varian reassured, although the dry note to his voice made it seem less so.

Jaina nodded slowly before she left, and her absence allowed Varian to let out a long, quiet sigh.

_Our life will never be easy, will it?_

_Probably._

Varian shook his head and forcefully shoved any memories of the fight that happened to float into his head far into the recesses of his mind, not wanting to contemplate what the emotions they evoked meant.


	2. Father and Son

**Author**: I am...overwhelmed, really. I got _one_ review and was like, :o . Then I got a second and was all O_o . Your patronage is appreciated and your reviews are loved. As a note, this will be Varian-centric because...well, he's the one talking to me and I'm a blue-blood. As of now, there is no update schedule. It all depends on how fast I write and how quickly I get sick of looking it over.

**Warnings**: Bad words, Varian's temper, politics, violence. Pretty sedate _for now._

**Disclaimer**: World of Warcraft doesn't belong to me. I wouldn't be stressing about making my rent if it did.

**Chapter 2**

One of the things that Varian disliked about ruling Stormwind was the occasional logistics with which he had to deal. Yes, he had advisors and bureaucrats to take care of 95-percent of the day-to-day running, which was what allowed him to travel (and may have been why a black dragon could take over his court, but that was _details);_ however, there _were_ issues he had to deal with personally.

_That_ was why he was sitting up far too late into the night, a candle burning softly beside him as he read the same paragraph for the umpteenth time.

_So many pleas for help and so few resources to give._

Both written and verbal requests for help trickled in from Stormwind territories on a daily basis, each one as impassioned and valid as the next.

Varian sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. _Northrend, Outland, Redridge, Westfall, Duskwood, Elywnn...not to mention our tenuous holdings in contested lands and Southshore. What do people think we are? We're their _king_, not a _god_. _

Varian grimaced as he looked at the report from Westfall. _The homeless and vagabonds are apparently deciding Westfall is a good place to congregate. We don't have _time_ to deal with them and the economic problems they generate along with the Defias. _

Varian scowled at the reminder of the Defias. _It seems as no-one can decide whether or not VanCleef is _dead. _Shouldn't it be _easy_ to tell? Is he breathing? No. Is that a gaping sword wound in his chest? Yes. Is he bleeding copiously? Yes. Therefore, he must be _dead_. _

Varian sighed and put the paper on the stack of 'still-to-do', which had originally been a 'to-do' pile that had only marginally decreased in size.

Varian picked up the next piece of paper and grimaced. _Not this. We'd rather fight a thousand matches than write these letters._

A list of the deceased who had served in Alliance lands was held lightly in his fingers as his eyes ran slowly over every name. He was sure that there were more dead than would ever be documented—adventurers who had died in the unforgiving cold of Northrend only to be raised into undeath by Arthas, others who fell victim to the Legion in Outland, warped and tortured by the demonic brethren of the draenei...there were many ways to die a lonely death. He couldn't write condolences to _their_ families or friends, who would spend the rest of their lives wondering when the next letter would arrive—if it would at all.

_The life of a 'hero' is unkind,_ Varian thought as he pulled over a piece of parchment. He knew that he could get the scribes to make a few generic letters, with 'uncle', 'husband', 'daughter', 'wife', etc. written on them and all he'd have to do would be sign his name, but that felt...he couldn't fathom doing something so impersonal. Not for those who had given their lives in defense of the Alliance.

_We wonder how many of these are from defending our lands against the orcish scum?_ Varian thought as he lightly tapped the feather of his quill against a blank piece of paper. _How many were cut down by those vile creatures?_

The question almost immediately gave him a headache as the anger he felt towards the Horde rose up within him, only to also bring unbidden images of that last fight with the mud-skinned aberration and how _glorious_ it had felt.

_No, no, _no, he thought emphatically and pushed away from his desk, the ink dry anyway. He stood perhaps a little roughly, as the chair scrapped with an unhappy sound against the floor, then blew out the candle, which left the room in almost complete darkness, smoke swirling in unseen currents towards the ceiling.

The moon—Elune—peeked through the clouds to fall into his room via windows that were carefully magicked with the best protective spells possible. Her light left a pale, thin strip of light across the floor, ephemeral and impossible grasp, like the thousand memories that vied for his attention, each fleetingly real in the darkness.

The moonlight that cut through the trees where he was hiding with his men, stalking orcs and bandits.

The moonlight that caressed his wife's skin.

The pure light that bathed a battlefield soaked in blood.

_You'd think it'd be easy for us to forget, _Varian thought, mildly annoyed with himself. Brooding was unkingly and unworthy of him, so he shoved all the memories into the recesses of his mind and heart, and chose to ponder them no longer.

He walked over to the door, placed his hand on the knob, and took a deep breath to compose himself. It wouldn't do good to go out into civilization looking as worn as he felt—even though the humans of Stormwind said they didn't value _just_ strength in a leader, Varian knew that any sign of weakness would stir the waters and brought predators out of hiding.

Varian pulled open the door quietly, and stepped out into the softly lit hallway. He closed and locked the door behind him, then turned to make the short journey to his room, the corridor silent save for the solid footfalls of soldiers patrolling.

He reached his room without anyone stopping to bother him, which made him smile slightly in guilty relief. _Don't know which is worse—the constant tension due to having our life on the line in Northrend or being here and having a thousand problems heaped upon us._

He stepped into his room and activated the mage-light that Jaina had crafted for him with a murmured word. His chambers were filled with a gentle glow as he secured his door, temporarily guarding himself against the world.

_We are a King,_ Varian reminded himself as he stripped. _We are no longer a simple gladiator. We have experience at _being_ a king. _He sighed and sat down on his bed once he was in his bed-clothes. _We were born and bred to be a leader of men._ Varian snorted at himself and laid down. _Our rule has never been an easy one. We've fought our entire life, and are a _warrior_ above all else. But...the Alliance doesn't _want_ a warrior for a king—the other Alliance racial leaders seek _peace_ rather than simply removing all the Horde scum from Azeroth._

Varian closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face in exasperation. _Why can't they see that the best way to solve this problem is to get rid of the source?_

An image of a particular arrogant, _frustrating_ orc flashed through his mind, which made Varian bare his teeth in a silent snarl. _Get rid of _him_ especially._

He turned onto his side and dragged the covers around him. _Go to sleep. All the problems will still be there in the morning, and it's no use working on things when unable to concentrate._

However, sleep was as elusive as the light that filtered through his window, alternately muted and revealed as clouds passed. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't find a way to get his mind to settle as it skipped around from memory to memory, idea to idea, each thought half-formed and fleeting.

He finally gave up, stood, changed into nondescript armor (with a helmet to cover his rather trademark hair and facial scars), then headed to the SI: 7 quarters and their eternally set-up target dummies.

It wasn't often that he found himself venting frustration on such a target—he was (usually) better than that at controlling a rather volatile temper. However it was sometimes necessary to indulge in something physical to work out his anger.

He walked into the thankfully empty courtyard and pulled out an old, trusty two-handed sword, his signature weapon in a safe place at the Keep. He walked around a little, warming his body as he stretched. He didn't have to hurt himself—he had enough people who tried to do that for him. Once he was more limber, he picked a random dummy and fell into his usual battle stance.

He started off slowly, _feeling_ the motion of his body. It was actually _nice_ to be hitting something, as he wasn't really allowed anymore. However, as he was finally relaxing, images of the last fight he had engaged in shoved themselves to the front of his mind, which made his entire body tense and his lips pulled back in a snarl feral enough to do his orcish name-sake good. His hands tightened around the sword as hatred and anger flooded him at the very _thought_ of the creature.

_He's arrogant._

A rather uncoordinated slash.

_He's abrasive._

A slightly smoother motion.

_He's a danger to the Alliance._

A stab that pierced deeply into the dummy.

_He's abhorrent._

The motion was a little jerky as the sword was yanked free.

_He represents everything we _hate_ about the alien scum._

A fierce slash sent the dummy's head flying into a corner.

_Then _why? _Why can't I _forget?

Varian stalked over to where the straw head had rolled to a stop and picked it up. _How? _He wondered as he dropped the bundle of straw next to the pole that supported the dummy, and idly noticed just how badly damaged the thing was. _Why now? Don't we have enough to worry about?_

He turned to a new dummy and silently promised to have new ones made in place of the ones he destroyed.

He assumed his battle stance again, glared at nothing in particular, and his hands slowly tensed around the hilt of his sword as the image of the orc he _loathed_ swam into view on one of the dummies. Varian's eyes narrowed dangerously before he almost literally ripped the dummy to pieces. He took shameful delight in imagining what each blow would do to the orc, slowly picking him apart in his mind until nothing but a stump remained where the dummy used to be. His breath came hard as his heart raced in his chest after he had finished decimating the straw doll.

He strapped his sword to his side, as he felt a little better. He swept up the scraps and shoved them into a discrete corner before he turned and walked out of the headquarters and towards the Keep as the pleasant ache of almost-overuse settled into his muscles.

There were few people out—some insomniac adventures and those returning home after losing money through gambling, drink, or both. Such meant that Varian, dressed as he was, was able to return to his home unmolested.

Once he had returned to his chambers, he stripped off the worn-in armor and shoved it into his closet, which left him in sweat-soaked linen shirt and pants.

He took a deep breath, but the undercurrent of anger and frustration refused to leave him, settled securely in his mind.

_This is _impossible_. It makes no _sense. Varian groused to himself as he sat on a chair before pulling off his shirt and flinging it somewhere it wouldn't get in the way.

_When has our life really made _any_ sense? Our home was razed, we become friends with the man who would eventually become the greatest evil Azeroth has ever known, our father and our mentor and one of our only friends are killed, a black dragon basically ruled our court, we were split into two people—_

_We get the _point_. We just wish..._

_That things were easy again. You win and live, you lose and die. Things will never be that way again._

_How can we know that for certain?_

_Are we honestly going to _really_ trust the Horde any time soon? Enough to try to make peace with them?_

Varian snorted and shook his head the darkness. _Unlikely._

His breathing gradually evened and his heart slowed to its normal pace before he sighed softly. _This is impossible for more reasons than one. Whatever this is...is something..._

_Else. Something _else_. Which we do _not_ have time for._

Varian ran a hand through slightly-damp hair. _We just have to get out and _do_ something. The problem is that we can't appear to show favoritism to any particular place within our kingdom. To just not be _king_..._

Varian paused and cocked his head to the side in thought. _Would that _work?

_It would take some convincing._

_Who says we have to _convince_ them? We could just—_

_Vanishing on them would be the worst possible thing we could do._

_True. But _how_ then?_

_We're sure they would insist on some kind of protection._

_Even though we don't need it._

_It wouldn't matter to them._

Varian rubbed his eyes and sighed. _Still, we need a distraction. This...isn't good._

He idly called for bathwater, not caring the time of night, as he continued to think, and had to repeatedly shove a particular orc out of his mind, which made him grow more frustrated with every passing moment.

_Why won't it leave us alone now!_

_Because we know it's _there_._

Varian growled and scowled at the floor. _We cannot stay here. We think too much here and, as of now, thinking is dangerous. But, how can we justify going out?_

_Checking on the status of the kingdom after being away for a while? We have been reading about the Defias in Westfall, the worgen in Duskwood..the orcs in Redridge..._

Varian ran a finger over one of the scars on his face as he considered the notion. They would be Blackrock orcs—not aligned with the Horde, unfortunately, but still. Perhaps driving the pests out of human lands would be good for him and get rid of the _thing_ that made his mind a miserable place to be. The action would also let him _think_ less, and thinking was dangerous and prone to giving him headaches. Better to be _doing_ than sitting around.

His bathwater came and he distantly murmured thanks. _Perhaps we can bring Anduin along?_

_They might not let him away from his tutors._

_He has a right to see the lands he will eventually rule._

_Given the situations we routinely find ourself in, we think that he staying here—and therefore, staying alive—would probably be best._

_We can ask, though._

_We can ask._

The king of Stormwind nodded with resolve, glad to finally have a plan of action that would take him away from boring things that gave him too much free time, and therefore would rid him of the _thing_ within him—he just had to work out the details.

–

Varian growled inwardly, incredibly unhappy. His efforts at leaving the Keep to go kill things had been thwarted at every turn by a number of different people. He would have ignored the majority of them, but when _Anduin_ asked for him to stay...well, he couldn't say no.

Truthfully, he hadn't spent time with Anduin recently and fiercely loved the boy, so he figured that, perhaps, being with Anduin—with his _son—_would chase away the emotion that had settled within him.

Still, it _also_ meant that he was stuck doing kingly-things, which were mostly _boring_. To his displeasure, most of his time was occupied with getting people to leave him alone, listening to depressing reports about the state of his land and his people—which he _desperately_ wished to remedy, but simply didn't have the _time—_and dealing with adventurers. The adventurers were the fun part, although figuring out how to say 'no' to sycophants in inventive ways was occasionally entertaining.

He wistfully looked forward to when he could finally tell people to go away and come back later (politely) and they would actually _listen—_while he could pull rank, it was unseemly, so he forced himself to stay for a decent amount of time past when he wanted to leave.

Once he had managed to vaguely resolve a minor argument between two of the lesser landholders in Elwynn, he decided to call it a day, and simply left the throne room. He had fulfilled his responsibilities—now he wanted time with his family. He asked around, discovered where Anduin was relatively quickly, and took the shortcuts that almost no-one knew about to get to his son.

Even in full plate armor, Varian could move quite quietly if he wanted to, so was content to observe his son practice with his martial instructors for a few minutes.

He eventually came to the unhappy conclusion that his son wasn't meant for the sword.

_It doesn't matter what path he chooses, though,_ Varian thought with a small degree of surprise before a wry smile formed on his face. _He is our son. He will excel at whatever he finally puts his mind to._

The instructor and Anduin noticed his presence at the same time, both of them starting in surprise at his presence. It took all of Varian's willpower to smother a small smile as he approached them. "Leave us," he told the instructor, who bowed and exited, leaving the court to Varian and Anduin.

"Father," Anduin murmured, looking away and at the sword that was still in his hand. "I...try."

Varian reached out and carefully ruffled his son's hair, aware of that plate armor wasn't entirely gentle. "I know." He took the sword from his son's hand and put it away before looking back at the boy. "How have your other studies been going?"

The change of topic seemed to relieve Anduin, and he began to talk animatedly as they walked away from the court. The boy was well aware of some Keep gossip, which made Varian snicker. It appeared that no-one thought that his son was listening in on their conversations, but from how curious and observant the boy was turning out to be...well.

"How about you?" Anduin asked once they had reached somewhere Anduin could change out of sweaty practice-clothes and into something cleaner. "How was Northrend?"

The briefest flash of Garrosh flicked through his mind, but was easily pushed aside. "Things are going...well. The Argent Crusade is making progress in its assault on the Citadel, but we are still some ways away from confronting..." Varian's eyes narrowed and he shoved down his anger before he took a deep breath and continued, although his voice was a little harsher than he had hoped, "the Lich King. He _will_ fall. It's just a matter of time."

Varian didn't miss Anduin's look of concern, and tried to alleviate it with a smile. "But that is a matter of state and something I don't want to deal with right now. Not when with family."

Anduin returned his smile, an odd sort of relief in his eyes. He paused, then tilted his head. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen you—well, the full-you—out of your armor. Don't you _ever_ relax?"

Varian snorted. "I don't _sleep_ in it." he paused. "Well, when in the Keep."

"Seriously?" Anduin asked, obviously incredulous.

"With the Horde and the Scourge all around me, I can't afford to relax," Varian muttered, trying his best to keep his hatred under tight control, shoving the memories of the Argent Tournament grounds away. His son didn't need to see the emotion. He had already seen him lose his temper, and Varian had felt awful about it afterwards. To have Anduin see how deep dislike could go and what it could become...

Anduin made a small, faintly-comprehending sound.

_He doesn't know what it means to know death is around the corner. That your enemies are within spitting distance and an evil that seeks your very _soul_ looms over you. And we hope he may never._

"Normally I'd say, 'we should have a set of armor made for _you_ soon', but..." Varian shrugged. "It seems as if..." Varian didn't want to say, 'you're _bad_ at it,' so instead he supplemented, "it's not worth it right now."

Varian would agree that he didn't possess much tact, but he could find some every now and then. Even if it was painfully obvious when he was trying.

Anduin seemed torn between looking sheepish and frustrated, and murmured, "I guess."

The silence that should have been awkward was rather comfortable, Varian simply glad to be in his son's presence. Like Tiffin, Anduin could force his temper to heel, which was occasionally a _much_ needed ability. _We're glad he's in the throne room most of the time, although it's been lessened now that we've returned._

"Father?" Anduin asked hesitantly, which made Varian frown slightly. His son should _never_ be afraid to ask something of him.

"Yes?" he replied, unable to keep the concern out of his voice.

"Will you take me to Northrend with you?"

Varian now understood why his son had been so hesitant. The dangers in Northrend were many and powerful. If his advisors had told him that Anduin couldn't go with him to _Redridge_...Northrend?

_We could override them. We _do_ happen to be _king_._

_Doing that makes enemies._

_Seriously?_

_...well, he _would_ never be out of anyone's sight. There's us, Jaina, Tirion, any number of members of the Argent Dawn...he'd be safe on the Tournament grounds._

_He'll want to see other places, though._

_Mm. Point. That would make it harder. However, the only real points of interest are the Tournament grounds and Dalaran. And Dalaran is _also_ quite protected. Nonetheless..._

"Northrend is a dangerous place," Varian answered slowly. "The enemies of the Alliance are many and strong—the blue dragonflight, the Horde, the Scourge...none of these are to be taken lightly. You..." Varian hesitated, he treading on dangerously sentimental ground, "you're _all I have_, Anduin. Your mother's death..." he shook his head slowly. "You dying would be something I would never recover from."

"I'm not a baby."

"No, but you're _precious_ not only to me, but to the Kingdom. If _you_ die, the throne of Stormwind would be up for grabs once I'm gone, and the civil war that would result would cripple the Alliance." He reached out and gently touched his son's face. "But that matters little. Deathwing could return and I wouldn't _care _if I lost you."

Varian hated being mushy, but it was _true—_if he lost Anduin, if his son _died_..._especially_ in Northrend...he wasn't lying when he said he would let the kingdom rot.

Anduin looked equally uncomfortable, but probably for different reasons. "It's just...you're never _here."_

"Then I will _stay_ here for as long as you want me to."

_No matter how hard it may be._

The assertion seemed both balm to the boy's soul and slightly embarrassing.

"Thanks," Anduin murmured quietly.

Varian only smiled. "Now, I think dinner is to be ready soon. Care to join me?"

Anduin's face responded with a smile of his own. "Sure!"

Varian smothered a chuckle as he walked with his son towards the kitchen with every intent to avoid formality and spend more time with the child he saw so very, very rarely.

–

"No."

"But sire—"

"I said no," Varian asserted, arms crossed over his chest. "I was _just_ out in Northrend. I refuse to return there." Subtlety be damned, he didn't need this.

"The soldiers _need_ you there!"

"And our _people_ need us _here_!" Varian snapped, temper rising. "Every day—_every day—_more pleas come in from our territories! As you seem to have forgotten, _those_ people are who join our armies. But what happens to aid them? Nothing! You block my _every_ effort," he half-snarled. "Have you _heard_ the stories coming in from Duskwood? There are _monsters_ out there killing our people!"

"There are Scourge in Northrend!"

"And demons in Outland!" Varian replied. "I know, I _know!_" Varian's eyes narrowed and his fingers dug into the crook of his elbows. He was about to say something truly acidic when he felt a gentle hand press against his arm.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and settled for glaring at the man who stood before him. "Get out," he growled darkly. "I will _not_ be returning to Northrend. _Truly _pressing events will call us there soon enough. Right now I have to attend to Stormwind territories."

The man bowed graciously, appearing unruffled by Varian's rebuke.

Varian looked to his side to see his son giving him the smallest of wry smiles.

The King of Stormwind glared at the floor and muttered something vile in orcish under his breath before asking, "Why'd you stop me?"

Anduin quirked his head. "Because you weren't being nice."

"Wasn't being _nice_," Varian grumbled before turning his attention back to waiting for whatever 'pressing' matter happened to present itself.

He had actually been proud of himself—he hadn't _really_ been angry with anyone for quite some time. But the man had been insistent and annoying, and Varian's tolerance for anyone with those two particular character defects was very, very small. However, as always, Anduin had the effect of his mother and pulled him down from his temper, no matter how justified Varian might believe it to be.

It was one of the days when Anduin was allowed to be free of his studies and observe how a kingdom was run—well, at least how _Varian_ ran his kingdom, as the boy had experience running it already—and Varian was glad to have his son near him. He had promised Anduin he would stay, so he would, come nether or high water. Still, as he had told the general who had bothered him, he had many, many problems in human lands that he just _wasn't_ allowed to attend to. A billion reasons were thrown at him, documents were deterred from ever reaching him, messengers were intercepted. It drove Varian _insane_, but no matter what he tried to do to remedy the situation in human lands, his attention was always diverted to the more _exotic_ locations like Northrend and Outland, simply because they were farther away and communication took longer, even _with_ the ability of mages to port where they pleased.

_The Horde is still a problem _here! He thought with annoyance. _The portal to Outland _is_ an issue, yes, and Arthas...and the Lich King is still a threat to all of Azeroth, but, by the LIGHT, do people not _see?

Varian rubbed his eyes and heard Anduin ask, "Are you alright?"

The king looked over at his son and said firmly, "I _must_ be."

Anduin frowned, obviously not entirely understanding, but another approached the throne, forcing Varian's attention away from his son.

Adventurers, citizens, military officers, nobles, all manner of people trickled through the throne room throughout the day. It was blissfully quiet, unlike the one where Thassarian had arrived with a letter from Tirion proclaiming his freedom from the control of the Lich King.

Even just the _reminder_ of the steady stream of Scourge—

_No, no, Death Knights._

—that had come into his presence gave him the beginnings of a headache. _That was definitely not one of our better days._

He watched two human adventurers walk away as they whispered heatedly to each other and he had to smother a yawn—yawning was un-kingly—which told him that he had spent enough time being king and now needed to hit things for a while, have some food, and then pass out to start it all over again the next day. He knew that he had a _very_ easy life compared to a great many of his people, but he still found his occupation rather exhausting.

Varian turned away from the main hall, and the soldiers stood a little straighter as those present in the room looked to him.

It was both unnerving and satisfying, having that kind of attention _entirely_ on him. Thankfully, he didn't need to say anything, and simply walked out of the room, Anduin a step or two behind him.

He entered the corridors of the Keep and his shoulders relaxed slightly, glad to be free of the room and the responsibilities is represented.

"Why are you _tired_? You don't do much of anything," Anduin asked and attempted to match stride with his father's, who slowed down to compensate for his son's shorter legs.

"It's not _physical_ exhaustion," Varian said, before smiling wistfully, "although sometimes I wish it was."

"You don't have magic."

"Just because I don't have magic doesn't mean I don't get headaches," Varian replied. "I do an unfortunate amount of thinking in there—and _that_ is what is exhausting."

Anduin frowned. "But—"

"Anduin."

Varian immediately had his son's entire attention, both through his tone of voice and that he ceased to walk.

"I am a warrior. I'm a king, yes, but I am also a warrior. All that in there" Varian gestured in the general direction of the throne room, "it's what I was born and bred and taught to do." He paused and scowled at a nearby pillar. "That doesn't mean I have to _like_ it."

"So, you get tired from _thinking_?"

"Like you get tired from swinging a sword all day," Varian replied and nudged his son into a walk. "Which I am planning on doing for about an hour."

Anduin snorted and shook his head, which was the same reaction that he received from Jaina—and had from his wife.

_Sometimes we wish we had another warrior in our immediate family._

The two came to a halt at Anduin's room, Varian's just a few doors further. Anduin was obviously about to say something probably profound, but Varian ruined the moment as he ruffled his son's hair, much to said child's annoyance.

"Father!" he protested in a whine.

Varian simply smiled. "I'll see you at dinner."

Anduin vainly attempted to pat his hair down and replied in a disgruntled mutter, "See you at dinner."

Varian watched his son enter his room before he gave a soft sigh.

_Now, about that hitting things..._


	3. Confrontation

**Author**: Long chapter is long. Thank you for your patronage and any reviews you leave! Just knowing that my story is read is good enough for me.

**Warnings:** Violence, Varian's temper, language.

**Disclaimer**: If World of Warcraft belonged to me, I wouldn't be worrying about making my rent.

**Chapter 3  
**

Varian knew that the ship couldn't move any faster than it already was, but every second that ticked by increased his anxiety ten-fold.

_Never easy. Never, _never,_ easy._

Varian's hands clenched the railing a little more tightly, his eyes unfocused on the horizon.

_Does some power somewhere have something against us?_ he thought heatedly.

Varian had developed a kind of sixth-sense for when something bad loomed overhead, so had cut his briefing in SI: 7 short—although there was much to do, the sense of foreboding wouldn't leave him. He had left with only a vague, insincere apology and was headed towards Stormwind Keep at a decent clip when a messenger almost literally ran into him. The woman began talking upon regaining her balance.

Varian had held up a hand, which brought her to silence. "Start again."

"Your son, sire," she said breathlessly. "He's been kidnapped."

Varian's eyebrows briefly snapped up in surprise before anger consumed the astonishment. "Come. Tell me—who, when, _how_?"

Varian and the messenger took off side-by-side, and the messenger talked as quietly as she could while still being able to be heard by her king.

"Within the past two hours, sire," she panted as she did her best to keep up. "He didn't show up for his training, which concerned his tutors—he's very punctual. They sent a servant looking, and after a half-hour of asking around, it was said that he was last seen with Lady Jaina."

"Then the Lady has simply—"

"It's not that easy. The prince was resisting her and was attempting to call out, but it appeared he had a silencing charm on him or something. They took a portal."

"Then they cannot be far."

"It went to Icecrown."

Varian stared. "Jaina is powerful, but she isn't _that_ powerful."

"Maybe it had already something set up at the other end. Maybe it wasn't the Lady. All we know is that the Prince was taken against his will to Icecrown and that you needed to be notified immediately."

Varian nodded sharply before he focused solely on the path before him. With skill born of living in Stormwind, he easily avoided pedestrians and riders, entirely intent on reaching the Keep. He would get answers there.

The sound of his boots went changed from the scrape of stone to the harder click of marble and he came to an abrupt stop in front of the throne, where a number of people were gathered and talked amongst each other quietly. They all jumped when his shadow fell over them.

"Tell me everything."

The tone of his voice said that he would brook no argument. People cast fleeting glances at each other, trying to communicate non-verbally as to whom would be the bearer of bad news. Eventually a female human mage stepped forward.

Varian focused his gaze on her, and she shivered slightly before she regained her composure.

"What happened?" Varian asked flatly.

The woman cleared her throat before she said, "I don't have all the details. All I know is that I passed Lady Jaina in the hallway twice—once alone and once with the Prince. The Prince looked..." the mage paused and grasped for the right word before she sighed and continued, "...frankly, he looked scared. Lady Jaina is my superior, though—who was I to stop her?"

Varian's fingers drummed against his arms as he struggled to fight down his anger. It wasn't the woman's fault and he wasn't enough of a bastard to metaphorically shoot the messenger.

"You could figure out where she went," he stated, voice carefully controlled.

The woman nodded and looked away as her fingers toyed idly with the hem of her sleeves. "Yes. I could...I'm good with portals. There was the leftover energy of the summoning of one, and it took only a little prodding to figure out where it lead to, sire."

"Can you replicate it?"

The woman shook her head. "If there was someone in Northrend I trusted enough to briefly mesh my power with to reach that far I could do it, but finding someone who you can...can..._resonate_ with is incredibly difficult, my Lord."

"There are portals from Dalaran to the major cities."

"Those are sustained by an entire city of mages, sire. That's why there are no portals_ to_ Dalaran, only _from_."

"You are sure it was Jaina?" Varian half-snarled, the anger not directed at the woman, but more at why in the world _Jaina_ would do something like this.

The woman squirmed unhappily. "Yes, sire. I worked with—well, as an underling for—her at Dalaran for a while. She has a very..._unique_ magical energy signature, my Lord."

"Was there anything that was odd about her?"

"I—I don't..."

"There was, my Lord," cut in one of the very minor nobles, making Varian focus his attention on him instead.

"How so?"

"When she...when she asked where the Prince was, the way she spoke it was...and was not...her voice alone."

"Did she act as she normally would?"

"I..." the man looked away and mumbled, "I assumed her..._unpleasant_ attitude was merely an effect of her time of month."

The man received more than one glare from the women in the room.

Varian's mind was racing. "So, it appeared as if she might be under magical control?"

"I...suppose?"

Eyes turned to the mage who had spoke, who shrunk slightly. "I don't specialize in that branch of magic—it's dark, dangerous power to play with and not one we're encouraged to explore. The only one who would might have even a rudimentary knowledge of such would be the Lady herself."

"Who might be under the influence of it," Varian growled.

There was a long, tense silence as Varian gathered his thoughts. Eventually, he scowled at the ground and stated: "We are going to Icecrown." Varian turned to one of the nearby soldiers. "Keep the Kraken in port until I arrive. Tell them that once I do, we are to make all due haste to Northrend."

The soldier nodded sharply and left, headed out to accomplish the order. Varian moved towards his rooms, his stride long, brisk, and _angry,_ the throne room quickly left behind.

He wasn't sure how he managed to get all his things together and not seriously harm either himself or others in the process—all he knew was that once he was came down from the haze of rage, he was on the Kraken.

_Why, Jaina? Why you, why now, and _how?_ You're most likely the strongest mage in Azeroth—what kind of power could work its will on _you?

The sea was the color of the sky—a dark, sullen gray which promised cold without rain or snow, only a wind that bit down to the bone through even the thickest clothing.

"We _will_ find him," Varian whispered fiercely, and the wind took his words away as soon as he uttered them. "And when we do, whoever—_whatever—_stole him from us will walk Azeroth no longer."

His arrival at Valiance Keep port was without fanfare, which was what he had wanted. He wasn't there for political purposes—it was purely personal.

Varian hurried off the ship as soon as it docked and climbed the few steps to the landing, to find himself greeted by a Quel'dorei mage.

"What is it?" he snapped, looking over at the gryphon handlers.

"I've been told you wish to go to the Argent Tournament grounds?"

Varian's eyes narrowed as he turned back to the elf, suspicious as he wondered who had contacted the mage. "Yes."

"I can teleport you there."

"Then _do it,"_ Varian half-snarled.

There was the briefest feeling of displacement before he found himself staring at the unfortunately familiar jousting rings and trial building.

He was only mildly surprised to see Tirion Fordring waited for him, and gave the man a brisk, absent nod. "Sir Fordring."

"I know why you are here, my lord."

Varian blinked, then quickly moved into the man's personal space. "Where is he? _Tell me_."

The man was absolutely unflappable. "We know that he is within the Citadel itself—beyond that, we are unsure."

"Then we must _go there_ and _find him_," Varian snarled. "We don't have time to waste."

"King Varian—"

"No, I'm _not_ going to wait. Every second that we sit here debating what to do only increases the chance that _my son_ will be harmed."

"We don't _know_ exactly where he is, and charging headlong into this will only get people _killed_."

"_You_ can sit here and plan all you want. _Take your time_, in fact," Varian drawled acidly. "_I_ will scour that Light-forsaken construct from bottom to top," Varian sneered, "and will probably find him long before you have even _started_."

"King Wrynn—" Tirion snapped, apparently able to be annoyed, but Varian cut him off when he gestured and received a gryphon before he heaved himself onto it and took the reins in his hands as his body vibrated in fury.

"I will see you there, Sir Fordring," he half-snarled before he turned the beast towards the Citadel and took off in a burst of air which made the snow on the ground swirl away from him.

The knowledge that what he was doing was probably a horrible idea had dawned on him sometime during his conversation—well, argument really—with the paladin, but somehow the man _didn't understand_. Hadn't he had son of his own? There must have been a thousand times when he had wanted to reach out and steer his child down a different path.

_Instead, he sat back and did _nothing_. We will not do that. Anduin is all we have. He will _not_ be taken from us._

Varian scoured the building from the sky and searched for an entrance with an abundance of activity—or no activity at all. What caught his eye, however, was the party of Horde creatures gathered around a barely perceptible doorway. He took up a discrete post and watched.

There were dead or dying members of the Cult of the Damned littered about, and a small group of adventurers—of both Horde and Alliance allegiance—stood nearby and bandaged their wounds. However, what caught Varian's eye was a familiar and repulsive face.

_If _he_ is here, then this is a place of importance. And from the mixture of races, we don't think that we'll be assaulted on sight._

Although a fight was a _really_ tempting prospect, just as a way of getting rid of his anxious energy.

After he decided that he had observed enough, he nudged his mount into movement and landed where the adventurers had set up their mounts. His movement caught their attention and the Alliance races started.

"King Varian!" a human warrior exclaimed (perhaps rather unwisely, as it alerted the Horde scum to his presence).

"_You_," Garrosh snarled and turned to him. "You had a hand in this, didn't you?"

Varian bared his teeth at the accusation. "I have done _nothing_, scum."

"Lies!" Garrosh replied heatedly, and approached Varian quickly, whose hand rested lightly on his sword.

"I am here because I saw _your_ activity. _I_ am searching for something important to me, and since most of my important things are taken from me by the _Horde_, I figured it was a good a place as any to start," Varian drawled. His fingers itched to close around the hilt of his sword and end the monster before him, who also idly reached for his own weapons.

Varian's attention was fully on the monster who had come to a stop a few yards away from him, Garrosh also apparently aware that a factional confrontation that ended in blood would _probably_ be a bad thing, but their tolerance of each other decreased with every breath.

Garrosh sneered. "Waiting in the shadows for a time to strike. How _human_ of a thing to do."

The way he said 'human' was akin to saying something along the lines of 'piece-of-shit', which made Varian's eyes narrow and had his hand convulsively clench his sword.

Varian was about to do something he probably would not regret later when a familiar paladin came to rest between them on his gryphon. "Stop this!" Tirion snapped, and Varian would hazard that Garrosh's glare at the paladin was probably as acidic as his own. "This bickering gets us no closer to rescuing Thrall or Anduin."

Varian's anger faltered at the news that the Horde faction _leader_ had vanished—most likely in the same manner as Anduin, although he doubted that Jaina, no matter how intimate with the Warchief, would be able to pull the same trick on him.

"What would you have us do, Sir Fordring?" Garrosh asked, careful controlled contempt in his voice—apparently, even _he_ knew that it was unwise to anger the strongest paladin in existence. "We _know_ that they are in there," Garrosh gestured to a medium-sized doorway for the Citadel (which meant it was much larger than needed for even a tauren, but probably a comfortable size for one of the valk'kyr. "We just can't get in."

Varian was about to say something scathing about Garrosh and the Horde's inability to _open a damn door_, but Tirion's sharp look warned him to keep silent.

Members of both factions that had aligned themselves with the Argent Dawn, as well as a small contingent of Alliance and Horde soldiers, settled on the icy ground, tension palpable in the air.

"Perhaps we can figure out a way in _together,_" Tirion said, pointedly looking at both Garrosh and Varian. The emphasis on the co-operation of the two factions made Varian scowl, but if Anduin was indeed inside, he would work with _anyone_ to get the door open.

It turned out to be remarkably simple.

Once Varian he felt he had waited long enough for other people to determine if the lock was physical or magical in origin, he stepped up to the door and simply pushed. He idly noticed that Garrosh had moved beside him and pushed on the door as well, obviously equally annoyed, but paid the monster little heed. The door opened with a loud resonating boom, and Varian quickly stepped in, anxious to find his son.

He didn't bother to look if anyone had followed him, and it was only after the doors _slammed_ shut behind him that he turned around, mostly from surprise at the noise.

Only the mortal he hated the most had made it in with him, and he seemed to stare equally blankly at the door that had closed behind them. They both snapped out of surprise at the same time and glared at each other.

"This is somehow your fault," Garrosh growled.

Varian simply snorted and turned away, oddly sure that Garrosh wouldn't take the opportunity to stab him in the back: one, because that wasn't his style and two, they had better things to take care of—like finding the people who were important to them.

Varian's eyes slowly searched the construct, his sword drawn as the very shadows seemed to crawl in the corners. His hair stood on end as an inquisitive, amused presence pressed in on him, and provoked a small growl of warning out of his throat.

He caught sight of a barely-lit altar out of the corner of his eye and immediately ran to it. His vision resolved his son sprawled on the faintly illuminated obsidian slab, pale and still and terror and rage welled up in him as he approached swiftly—terror for his son's health, rage at whatever would do something like this to him.

He had nearly reached the altar when a solid veil of shadow jumped up before him, which caused him to skid to a halt, sure that if he had run into the semi-transparent thing that it would hurt much more than it should. He could still make out the quiet, pale form of his son, who looked exhausted, drained, and terrified, as if caught in the worst nightmare imaginable.

From Garrosh's cry of surprise, Varian imagined Garrosh had found Thrall and that the Warchief didn't look much better.

"I'm impressed—I had thought it would take you longer."

Varian's head snapped up and his jaw loosened slightly at the woman who leaned against a darker-than-black pillar that supported the arching ceiling.

The gold of her hair stood out magnificently against the deep blacks and purples she wore, the cloth conforming pleasingly to her body. Her skin was a soft, healthy peach, but her bright blue eyes held flickers of shadows that made them unnerving and painful to look at for too long.

Focusing on her nicely displayed breasts wasn't a particularly bad thing, though. It _was_ slightly distracting, however.

It took Varian a moment to gather himself before he murmured, "Jaina?"

He saw her lips curl up in a small smile and the slithering movement of her hair told him she had nodded.

Varian groped for words before he asked, "_Why?_"

The delicate movement of the embroidery that covered the shoulder of her robe moved, which told Varian she had shrugged. "Does it matter? You are here—and that was the purpose," she murmured and those ruby lips curled into a surprisingly vicious smirk.

Varian was startled enough that he was unable to block the bolt of shadow that was thrown at him, which sent him into a nearby pillar and knocked the breath out of him. He braced himself against the pillar he had just been flung into and pushed himself to his feet, only to see Anduin (and, most likely, Thrall) vanish in an eerie crimson light that was obviously a teleportation spell.

'He grows weaker with every breath, King of Stormwind,' Varian heard a voice that made his skin crawl purr in his mind. 'You may have arrived sooner than anticipated...but that does not guarantee you will make it to your son in time.'

Varian snarled at the darkness that crawled in the corners of the cathedral-like building. "Nothing will keep me from him!"

A physical laugh filled the construct. "We shall see."

Varian briefly spared a glance at Garrosh, who looked equally pissed, then pushed any other thought for the orc away as he began to search for a way—_any _way—to get to his son. He _knew_ there had to be a physical exit—whatever was here was _toying_ with him, which meant that it _must_ have left something for Varian to find.

However, all his searching was for naught, which made unpleasant and unwelcome anxiety pool in his stomach.

_We _must_ find him! Anduin is all we have._

"Worm."

"What do you want, creature?" Varian growled as he turned to face the obviously annoyed orc.

"Where did they go?"

"You tell me," Varian snarled as his anger rose with a rapidity that distantly alarmed him. Given the situation he was in, he would _probably _have ignored the orc, but the subtle, quiet anger that always existed at the _sight _of the orc seemed to be stronger than usual. "It is probably a mistake that you and your breed made that brought this problem down upon both our heads. You alien scum are good for nothing except—"

Varian dodged a strike from one of Garrosh's axes, and his sword quickly found its way to his hands, and he blocked another strike. The knowledge that he could finally—_finally!—_rid Azeroth of the abomination went searing through him, brushing away the usual token misgivings he possessed.

"You call _me_ scum?" Garrosh sneered. "It is one of _your_ kind that sits upon the Frozen Throne and plots the demise of the entire world."

The mention of Arthas made Varian snarl. "He is no longer of my kind," Varian replied hotly, pushing an offensive. A thought dawned on him that made him grin inwardly. "He is just _one_ person," Varian said, before continuing: "—your _father_ damned your _entire race_."

The briefest flicker of guilt and sadness in the orc's eyes was replaced by fury that made Varian oddly giddy. He _knew_ he had found _exactly_ the right button to push to drive Garrosh past the point of civility. It was proof positive, to him, of the bestial nature of the creatures, justification for putting down the entire rabid race.

Garrosh's roar of _hatred_ provoked the strangest grin on Varian's face. He had fought many battles—some of them against worthy opponents.

But this...

_This_ would be beyond anything he had previously experienced.

There was nothing held back, there was no true _thought_ behind the actions, and Varian found himself slowly sliding into a place, a mindset, that was completely foreign to him but utterly _glorious_.There was no pretense, no control. It was pure instinct, pure _loathing_, and fierce glee shivered through him at every contact.

_Nothing_ hurt. He was beyond paltry things like pain, and only altered his stance and style enough to compensate for any _real_ wound he received. The terrain they were working in didn't matter, the damage to the structure no more important than the damage to himself.

Everything but the fight was of little consequence—until he found himself supported by air and nothing else. The free-fall was sickening, and he had barely processed _oh there's a hole up there we must have come through_ before he hit liquid.

Scaldingly _hot_ liquid.

Through years of training, he kept his mouth shut at the abrupt temperature change and forced himself to the surface, sword still gripped tightly in hand. Breaking through the water (he hoped it was water) was a harder task than he would have preferred—hot water made hot armor, and hot plate armor was hard to move in. However, find the surface he eventually did and made his way over to what served as a shore and pushed himself up and out. He shook the liquid out of his eyes as his breath came harder than he would have liked. He quickly decided that standing was better than sitting, as sitting would have meant subjecting himself to hot armor pressing firmly into delicate places. He looked around cautiously and eventually found a distinctly unhappy and water-logged looking orc not too far away from him.

"Your fault," Garrosh growled, and Varian couldn't help but find some humor in the situation. As the orc regained himself, Varian took a moment to assess the damage that Garrosh, the wall, a few pillars, the ground, and the _really hot water_ had done to him.

It was worse than he had thought, but better than it could have been.

As he used what bandages he had retained to bind some of from his wounds, he looked around, and his eyebrows slowly rose at the place he found himself in.

Varian stood on the edge of a pool of liquid that glowed a soft white, which reflected off the enormous crystals that jutted out of the planes of the place and made it difficult to tell how he was oriented. The multifaceted mirror-like objects distorted his reflection and scattered him—and, obviously, Garrosh—around the entire area. There seemed to be no color in the place save he and Garrosh, only a few shadows breaking up the scenery that otherwise would have been painful to look at.

Garrosh muttered something in orcish, but Varian didn't bother to interpret, as what the Mag'har said was of little import anyway.

The king took a step forward and his image reflected all around and through the crystals, making both he and Garrosh jump.

The orc gave him a dirty look, but even his small movement sent equal amounts of startling images around them.

"Where is here?"

Varian looked around and relaxed a little—it would have been obvious if Nerubians made their homes in the area; for one, there would at least be color.

"Underneath where we were," Varian answered dryly.

Garrosh snorted and shook his head in a manner that obviously said 'stupid human'.

The fall and abrupt douse in far-too-hot water had shaken both Varian and Garrosh out of their desire to kill each other, as they were faced with an unknown place and seemed to tacitly decide that they could resume their conflict once they got out of the area and found their important people.

_We can't even tell if there are _walls, Varian thought, mildly annoyed.

What was most unnerving, though, was that it wasn't only he and Garrosh reflected—there were shadows of others, perhaps ones who had come before them...and had never left.

The thought was disturbing, especially when he was working under time constraints.

He turned to speak to Garrosh, and swore softly when the orc was no long where he had been _certain_ the creature was.

Now, all he had to work with were mirrors and sounds.

Varian took a careful step forward—his foot sunk into the floor slightly, as if he were standing on sand—and continued towards where he thought there might be a wall, or an entrance of some sort, considering how the shadows fell.

_Or it could be something that thinks we will be a tasty meal, _he thought cynically.

He lead with his sword, and was sure that he looked stupid, but when it came to survival or his pride, his survival came first. His sword _did_ eventually touch against something that rung with a clean, pure tone which made him stop and approach where it had hit. He traced out its shape before he determined that there was something behind the structure. He cautiously made his way in, glad that he didn't have to squeeze between anything—his armor was still uncomfortably hot.

The shadows and reflections were a little more pronounced now that he had left the cavernous area he had fallen into. He found that he had instinctively quieted his breathing, and strained to listen for even the slightest sound. The area was eerily silent, save for his own himself and the shifting of the ground beneath his armored boots.

He turned a corner, started, and quickly brought his sword up—only to shatter a mirror-like construct. He paused and shook broken crystals off himself.

_Calm. We have to stay _calm.

Still, seeing an orc looming over him had brought out the first reaction he usually had—kill it first, ask questions later.

_That wasn't Garrosh, though. We thought it was just he and us in here..._

The figures in the mirrors fluctuated between almost perfectly clear—he saw a number of each of the races—while others were cloudy, indistinct. Both of these phenomena made the king nervous. Any kind of change in a place like wherever he was never was good, especially from the defeated, exhausted looks on the countenances of all those trapped within.

After looking cautiously up and down a corridor, he stepped out—

Only to have his world tilt in interesting ways.

"Tiffin?" he whispered. He _knew_ it couldn't be true, that she _couldn't_ be where he was, that she was _dead_—

'Varian.'

Her voice was as he remembered it, she left small indents in the ground, she had a shadow...it made him _want_ her to be real. Her muted colors made Varian wary, but he desperately wanted something to have happened that had either brought her to him—or he to her. He had forgotten just how much he missed her.

"What are you—" he started once he had gotten his voice back, caution and yearning warring within him.

Her hand touched his face gently and he recoiled from the cold. She merely smiled sadly.

'Come. You don't have much time.'

He followed her dumbly as she took his hand and let her lead him along. It took a number of steps before he dug in his heels and stopped. "How can I know you're real? That you're not some kind of...trap?" he asked and hated that he needed to ask the question, but his life had been dangerous enough that he _had_ to ask.

Tiffin looked at him sadly and shrugged. 'You can't. But the longer you stay here, the closer you come to dying. We _need_ to get you out of here.' She paused and looked at him. 'Would a trap tell you that with every step you take you're aging? My touch protects you—but only for so long. Come. I'll take you where you can escape...and return to our son.'

Varian looked briefly away before he took her hand again, and felt weak and stupid for his blind belief, but as he felt he had been walking in circles...why not take the chance? He had his sword, if she turned on him, he could probably defeat her—even though it would tear him apart to do so, delusion or not.

"Where is here?" he asked.

She looked briefly over her shoulder as they briskly walked. 'I'm not sure.'

"How'd _you_ get here?"

'When you fell, you ripped more than a physical portal open.'

"And you came to find me."

'Varian, after our son, you are the most precious person to me. I...can't help you much, not against what you're facing, but I can do _this_.'

Varian wasn't sure how many turns they took, or how his wife seemed to know where they were going; all he knew was that, eventually, they came out to an open space like the one he had fallen into, except this one had a door—an honest to Light _door_.

'One last thing,' his wife said and turned to him, taking both his hands in hers. 'From the properties of that labyrinth you aged...significantly. I can bring back a number of years, but not them all. Getting rid of that...' his wife seemed to struggle to find an appropriately derogatory word, but as she failed, continued, '_thing_ is the only sure way to return the time taken from you.'

It was an odd sensation, being kissed by a ghost as she dissolved slowly and murmured, 'Light go with you,' before she vanished entirely.

Varian took a deep, shuddering breath before looking at the door before him. "Let's get this over with."

He walked over and opened the door to be greeted with a much different sight.

The architecture had returned to what he had remembered, with a high, vaulted ceiling that crawled with shadows, obsidian pillars, and floors made of carefully embedded bones. A familiar brown orc was talking quietly with a green one, awe and an odd sort of desperation in Garrosh's posture.

Varian paused, thought, then shut the door behind him _loudly_.

The two orcs jumped and whirled, their weapons in hand as he gave them a cocky smile. "I don't know if I should congratulate you on getting out—I guess I made it harder than necessary if _you_ could do it."

Garrosh started forward, but the other orc's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

'Normally I'd let him kill you,' the slightly-familiar green orc said dryly. 'But that can be attended to later, human king.'

The orc gestured over his shoulder with his head. 'What lies outside there wants desperately to kill you. It has failed twice—it wants to make sure it doesn't fail a third. You step out of my protection...you're facing Overlord Saurfang and your lady mage. Unfortunately for you, the only way to get out of here and save the two that you seek is to defeat those.' The orc gave Varian a feral smirk. 'Then you have to deal with the monster itself. Best of luck to you, _human_—you're going to need it.'

The orc turned away and murmured something quietly to Garrosh before fading into nothing.

Garrosh was silent for a long moment before looking at Varian, resolve and exhaustion in his eyes. "We won't be able to beat them alone," he said, voice oddly hoarse and defeated.

Varian nodded slowly. He knew what the orc was saying, and what it meant for both of them.

_Working with _Garrosh Hellscream, he sneered inwardly. _Necessary evil._

"When you're ready, creature," Varian drawled.

Oddly enough, the familiar term made Garrosh smirk at him. "I was stuck waiting for _you_."

They both turned to face where they could see two dark figures waiting, Varian's hands tightening on his sword.

_Although we do have to wonder how whatever this is pulled Jaina under control. She's definitely explaining herself later._

He and Garrosh moved together, leaving the protective barrier that the green-skinned orc had somehow erected. The figures' attentions were immediately on them, and they began a counter-attack, dark, forbidding shadows curling around who they assumed was Jaina as the warrior—Saurfang—moved to intercept them.

Through unspoken agreement, Garrosh and Varian decided that taking out Jaina—who was much squishier, ranged, and used abilities that both he and Garrosh were susceptible to—was the best choice.

However, they hadn't expected just how well Saurfang and Jaina would work together. Every time they got even _close_ to the woman, she would freeze them in place and blink to a different part of the building before Saurfang intervened, charging one or both of them and sending them far, far in the opposite direction, more than once embedding Varian into a wall or tumbling across the floor, leaving him disoriented, out of breath, or both. Varian _knew_ that he'd have a plethora of bruises later, but was well aware that his armor was also what protected him from having his spine broken. However, the occasional pop or snap made him distantly worried—but there were better things to worry about, like staying alive.

After he gained nothing but injuries, Varian decided to leave Jaina for later and simply endure the burns and chills that Jaina almost _casually_ threw at him and turned his attention to one of the most powerful—if not _the_ most powerful—warrior on Azeroth.

_This isn't going to be easy._

Varian ducked under a mortal strike that probably should have taken off his head, and rolled to a crouch a few yards away and was surprised as Garrosh distracted the warrior with an attack of his own, which forced the male to divide his attention between attempting to kill Varian and keeping himself alive.

_Well, we _did_ agree to work with each other._

Varian got to his feet only to stagger back against a nearby pillar when a firebolt hit him squarely in the back and burned away some of his cloak before slamming the area with successive arcane missles, pressing the flash-heated armor into him. The pain of the burn briefly took his breath away, but he shoved it aside to focus on defeating Saurfang. The sooner he did that, the sooner he could take care of Jaina. He shoved himself away from the pillar and leaped beside Garrosh, the shockwave of his landing briefly stunning even Saurfang. It gave both he and his unwanted comrade a brief window of opportunity. Them slamming him simultaneously sent him staggering back a little further, and the two pressed their advantage as much as they could—only to find that their attacks were nothing but an inconvenience to the orc, strikes that should have cut to the bone turned away.

The moment of surprise allowed Saurfang to fling them off, sending Varian skidding along a hard stone floor, the heated armor pressing further into his back as his cloak got stuck on his pauldrons, twining it about him and binding his movement.

He ripped his way out of the cloak once he had stopped moving, turned onto his stomach and tried to push himself up only to have his body give out under him.

_We're better than this! Why...why are we so slow? Did we really...?_

Varian heaved himself to his feet, only to be almost shoved back down by a frostfire bolt, he staggering under the swift change from searing heat to aching cold. _We are never, ever mocking Jaina about being a mage again._

His vision focused again only to have him have to sidestep Garrosh, who was still on his feet, his plate boots were sending up sparks as he skid across the floor. It was the wall that eventually stopped him, but Varian was more focused on the dark warrior that approached him.

_We can't! Anduin...!_

As Varian moved to try and put himself in a better position, a dark, free-floating obelisk of nearly-transparent black caught his attention.

It was an admittedly bad decision, to divide his attention, and had years of training not pulled his exhausted arms up in a parry, the attack Saurfang had initiated would have cleaved him in two. As it was, his body shook under the force of the blow.

_We're better than this!_

Varian threw the male off him and hit him as hard as he could, making the warrior stagger backwards and grunt.

As it was, most of the force of Varian's blow was turned away by the orc's armor, but it gave him enough time to take in a few things: One-none of the attacks he or Garrosh had landed showed on Saurfang's armor, two-Garrosh had regained himself, three-jaina was nowhere near tired, and four-anything that looked like the obelisk tended to be magical.

He decided it was worth a shot, as the crystal might help to remove a threat (or two, if he was lucky—not that he was), so he bolted for it, which was more difficult than he would have liked. Still, he arrived before Jaina or Saurfang could stop him, and lunged for the crystal. He struck out at it with as much force as he could manage before coming to a forced halt as his torso hit the edge of the altar it was resting on.

The stone shattered into a thousand pieces, and a blinding flash of darkness and a shriek of pure rage emanated from where the physical thing used to be. Varian could only lean heavily on the pedestal that it had been floating over as he caught his breath and swore inwardly at his weakness and his position for either Saurfang or Jaina to finish him off. However, when focused bursts of arcane energy, quickly followed by other shots of fire and frost flashed behind him,Varian turned quickly so that his back was resting against the stone construct and was almost smug to see Saurfang embedded in the opposite wall.

He pushed himself forward and saw a drained-looking Jaina slumped against one of the obsidian pillars, the hood that had covered her face pooled around her shoulders. From her expression, she was probably wracked with shame, and Varian fleetingly though that she _should_ feel ashamed. The king was about to say something when her body went limp and she vanished, making Varian swear. Even though she had tried to kill him, the _one_ person who might have had energy and a clear head to defeat Saurfang—or at least keep him occupied—had been removed from the ring. It was still just he and Garrosh—and they were both rapidly fading.

"A little _help here,_" Varian heard Garrosh snarl, and the king's head quickly snapped over to where the orc was keeping a good distance between himself and Saurfang—but knew it wouldn't last for long.

Varian quickly looked around and spotted another crystal—far from him, but close enough to Garrosh that the orc might be able to smash it without too much effort.

Varian felt compelled to help the orc, no matter how much he distrusted and disliked the male—afterall, it appeared as if the orc had been keeping Saurfang from taking advantage of Varian's distraction and he had agreed to working with him. Varian turned and charged at the Overlord, striking him from behind as Garrosh distracted him from the front.

It was a rather cowardly move, as far as Varian was concerned, but one did what one must to survive.

Together, they managed to get the tiniest amount of breathing space, enough for Varian to gasp out, "Crystal," and gesture vaguely in the direction of the still-solid one.

Garrosh looked over and Varian stepped in front of him to keep Saurfang at bay, his body starting to give way.

_How old _did_ we become? _Varian wondered idly as he fought to just stay _standing._

Varian didn't _see_ Garrosh destroy the crystal, as he happened to be quite occupied with not dying, but he could tell when the crystal broke, however, based on how the orc he was fighting staggered backwards before he vanished in a teleportation spell, which made Varian groan in unhappiness.

"Light, _no_," Varian muttered as a _very_ angry looking not-Jaina appeared before them, seeming less like the woman and more like...something disgusting, that _hurt_ to look at because it was so _unnatural._

"_How_?" it demanded, as it walked towards them with an easy, predatory grace. Varian distantly noticed Garrosh had come to stand beside him, but was far too occupied with warily watching the something that had been making his life _miserable_. "You should be _dead_!" it snapped, voice fluctuating between male and female, familiar and unfamiliar.

"I'm hard to kill—enough people have tried," Varian managed to get himself to say, disdain thick in his voice.

The humanoid's blazing-yellow eyes narrowed and its mouth pulled back in a snarl that showed far, far too many teeth as the clothes melted into its form, it becoming more formless shadow than human in shape. "It is no matter. You _will_ die this time!"

Varian didn't know where he found the energy. He supposed it was because his son's life was on the line, and anything that nasty-looking couldn't possibly be a good thing for Azeroth.

He blocked a blow from the shadow-being, skidding back a few yards, body vibrating in pain. It hadn't been so much the _physical_ attack that had hurt, it was the energy that jumped between that had. He could still feel it crawling across his skin, searching and clinging, even though he was unable to see it to throw it off. He didn't have time to be distracted, however, as it seemed quite capable of dividing its attention between Garrosh and he.

Even when fighting Saurfang and Jaina, they had been working in tandem more than together. However, as Varian had no idea where he was drawing strength from, he figured actually working _with_ the orc might be a good idea—he had survived far too much to die.

It was actually alarming, how easily he fell in stride with Garrosh, but he figured that it was the same reason that their match had ended in a tie—he and the orc simply thought, and therefore fought, alike.

Still, Varian could feel himself fading, his vision dimming at the edges and just _moving_ felt like a herculean effort. His pride wouldn't let him fall before the orc, though, so he kept on fighting, far past the point of where he should have collapsed.

It was an odd sort of dance, choreographed by desperation, fear, and obstinance. Whenever Garrosh faltered, Varian would step in to keep him from being finished off by the creature, intercepting solid shadow that sent shivers of pain through him, reminding him of all the places where he was injured from his battles with Saurfang, Jaina _and_ Garrosh.

Varian growled when Garrosh pulled him close only to see the shadow-bolt that would have done very, very bad things to him impact where he had just been standing and couldn't help the small feeling of grudging appreciation.

Varian didn't bother to think about how it felt to be _so close_ to the orc, as he was preoccupied with surviving—although the sensation lingered once he had pushed away and charged towards the creature who was trying to kill them.

It was an agonizingly slow process, and Varian _swore_ he could feel himself dying, but he and Garrosh worked their way in closer to the monster, who seemed rooted to the spot now that it no longer wore a humanoid disguise. It got understandably more difficult the closer they became, as it seemed to surprise the thing that they still lived.

"What _are_ you?" it asked, voice equally parts intrigue and anger.

Varian smiled grimly. "Your demise."

They moved together, and through an almost surprising tandem move, managed to cut the being length-wise, splitting it into two parts that writhed in pain, two small shards contained within it disintegrating.

The two of them tried to jump back, but neither of them moved quite fast enough to get out of the way of a final, spiteful swipe.

It hit Varian in the chest hard enough that his breath was knocked out of him and he staggered backwards, a hand going over his heart, as his back hit against something solid that, thankfully, was not stone. Still, there were more important things to worry about than his own health—that would come later.

"My son," he managed to wheeze out, glaring at the dissolving being.

The shadow-thing cackled. "The minute you were trapped was the minute I let him out. His life was linked to yours, human king—should you have died, he would have died, and the Wrynn line with you."

"And Thrall?" Garrosh demanded, his voice sounding surprisingly close.

"You carried his power...and the fate of the Horde..."

With that, the being disappeared, leaving Varian torn between fuming, exhausted, and feeling stretched thin.

After a moment's breath, Varian's body faltered, and he sat down _hard_ on the stone floor, his head going to his hands, the world spinning in interesting ways (he was sure the event highly amused Garrosh, but the orc apparently had enough decency to not say anything). To his surprise, he began to chuckle, then laugh.

"By the _Light_ we're _alive_," Varian breathed.

The statement seemed to hit home with Garrosh as well, since he heard the brown orc bark a laugh as well, the sound full of draining-panic and pain.

Their disbelieving laughter faded into the distinctly empty building, there no longer a feeling of vile things waiting in the shadows.

In that quiet movement of exhaustion and pain, Varian realized that what he was leaning against wasn't stone, but something else. It was when he finally let his head out of his hands and felt it rest against armor that wasn't his own that he deduced he was sitting against Garrosh.

And really didn't care.

As he took inventory of his injures, he also reflected on how it felt to lean against Garrosh—and not just physically. In that odd battle against their closest friends, Varian had never once—never _once—_thought that Garrosh would turn on him or fall. He had just instinctively decided that if Garrosh could hold his own against _him_ and possessed any sense of honor, then the orc would fight _with_ him.

The odd emotion that lurked beneath the hatred he had for the orc made him feel that, somehow, he had found in Garrosh something that had been missing—which was only part of the reason why he hated the scum so much, but that was an entirely different issue.

Come their survival, he would still dislike the orc, but he would have a little respect for the bastard. Anyone that he could trust to keep his back in a fight was at least worth _some_ regard.

From the slow pain that began to seep into his body, Varian started to realized _just_ how badly injured he was and knew that his continued survival probably relied on getting out of the Light-damned construct.

"Should get out of here," he mumbled.

He pushed away and attempted to find his feet; however, from the odd angle of one of his legs, he knew it would be an uphill battle. As he struggled to stand, Varian was surprised by the brown, armored hand that was extended to him.

Under normal circumstances, Varian would have snapped and said something insulting and venomous, but he couldn't find the spite within him and his pride was fairly tattered anyway. He took the orc's offered help and pulled himself upright by inches as the Mag'har simply stood and waited. Varian was relieved to see that there was nothing but an odd sort of empathy in Garrosh's expression, and even more that the orc didn't comment—and thought idly that it wasn't as surprising as it should have been.

"How old," Varian's voice caught for a second before he could continue, "do I look?"

Garrosh smirked wryly. "You shouldn't be standing."

Varian winced. "Mm." He looked at the door that seemed leagues away, and his darkened eyesight made it seem even farther. "I'm sick of this place," he growled and took a step forward, only to find himself leaning heavily against the orc that had (astonishingly) stayed beside him.

Garrosh said nothing, and simply waited for Varian to find his feet again.

Through a tacit, unhappy agreement they decided that they probably wouldn't be able to make it across the room alone, so, together, they slowly made their way to the entrance, each of them ashamed and annoyed that they couldn't make it on their own (as Varian felt Garrosh falter more than a few times and stood as strong as he could until the orc recovered).

"Wonder how bad the damage is," Varian murmured as they made their way over. He had a vague idea of the extent—especially from how he couldn't walk entirely correctly, but didn't know the true amount. "It's not just from the...place. It's from Jaina, and Saurfang, and both of us and that...creature."

"We'll find out. Although..."

The silence spoke enough in regard to their current situation.

Varian was _intensely_ aware of all the places where his and Garrosh's bodies touched. He could feel Garrosh's hand on his side, and was pretty sure he was bleeding on the orc. Varian could feel his horse-tail becoming sticky and caked with blood from some wound on Garrosh's arm, and was acutely aware of how his own arm curled around the Mag'har's body. They staggered more-or-less in time, and sometimes Varian had to bear the weight of Garrosh's body as he lost his balance, as the opposite was true. _Those_ moments, the ones where he was pressed against the orc, or vice-versa, made the _thing_ within him dance gleefully and _beg_ for more contact. He took absently guilty pleasure in those moments, and hoped it didn't show—he didn't need to deal with the potential problems that the orc's awareness of such might engender.

It felt like an eternity passed since they had begun their trek to the exit, and they both breathed a soft sigh of relief once they arrived.

A small smile flickered across Varian's face. "My son is going to kill me."

He heard Garrosh bark a small laugh. "If your boy is going to react that way, I can't wait to see how Thrall will."

To save their individual dignities, they managed to get a respectable distance from each other before they leaned on the door, and it opened slowly under their combined weight.


	4. Recovery

**Author**: Another chapter for your perusal. I want to thank everyone who chooses to read, and even more those who review. I'm sorry I can't respond to some of the reviews that are left-know that even those who leave 'unsigned' ones are loved.

**Disclaimer**: Can you imagine how much more interesting a trip to the Argent Tournament grounds would be if I owned World of Warcraft?

**Chapter 4**

Varian scowled. "Why do you _always_ win?" he half-whined, which made his son grin.

"Because I plan," the boy answered smugly as he took his father's final game-piece.

Varian tapped his fingers against his elbow and glared at the game-board sullenly.

"Different game?" his son offered politically.

Varian huffed, then smiled. "I bet I can beat you at cards."

"We'd need someone else, though."

"I'm sure Adralisa would have fun trouncing us both."

"...maybe Lord Fordring?"

The mental image of the serious paladin engaged in a simple card game made Varian laugh. "Oh, Light, wouldn't _that_ be a sight?" Varian paused. "Hm, who else?"

A simple discussion eventually became a contest of who could think up the most absurd person to join them at a game of cards, which eventually had both royals of Stormwind gasping for breath as they laughed.

As Varian composed himself, he reflected on—not for the first time—how _nice_ it was to be awake. All that he was capable of remembering before waking to his son holding his hand was Arthas' laugh reverberating through his mind—the prick was probably watching the entire time—and _pain_. He had surfaced after being under intense healing and observation for three days (or so he was told), and felt like a horde of elekks had stampeded over him; but, he was awake and, to all appearances, whole (the aging had been completely reversed, which was a blessing—he wanted to see his son grow up).

He had been commanded by what felt like every healer known to man that he was to rest_—or else_—so he was seated in a bed in a house that had been rented from a resident of Dalaran and played games with his son, with the occasional 'guest'—most of whom were healers. It was usually Adralisa, the draenei shaman who had helped heal him, and she tended to be efficient and unobtrusive when she came to check in on him. Usually she just walked over, cast a healing wave on him, asked if anything hurt, refreshed her healing totem, and then left. It was nice, compared to how some of previous healers he had endured had fussed.

Anduin yawned, which provoked a smile from Varian. "Go sleep. I'm sure you've been awake for far too long."

"Don't wanna," Anduin whined.

'Do as your father says.'

Both males looked at the shaman who stood in the doorway, then back to each other.

"I'll see you later," Varian said and nudged his son off the perch the boy had on the bed.

"You will," Anduin asserted before he left the room under the draenei's watchful eye.

Once the shaman decided that the boy had indeed entered the room leant to him, she stepped into the king's, closed the door behind her, and walked over to him.

"You know, you don't have to check in on me so often," Varian said as the healer renewed her totem at his bedside.

'Yes, I do. If only to refresh what is healing you,' she replied primly.

Varian paused, then asked the question that had bothered him since he had woken, "How badly was I hurt?"

Adralisa sighed as she examined the monarch. 'It was a very close thing. If your son had not been by your side, you would not be asking me that question,' she answered as she held his hand, the familiar glow and tingle of healing energy around her own hands.

Varian stared. He _did_ faintly recall the sense of someone being with him, someone who obviously cared for him, but he hadn't connected it with it being his son. Still, the knowledge that Anduin had been so near made him growl, "You let my _son_ that close to me? That might have put him in danger!"

'My dear king, I think that the only person who could have sent him away from your side would have been _you_,' the shaman replied dryly as her magic faded. 'He has the potential to become a great healer. Please try to not dissuade him from that path.'

Varian grumbled, "He's no warrior."

Adralisa looked surprised at his admission. 'Perhaps...' she trailed off and shook her head. There was a moment's pause as she appeared to mull over what she had felt when she had examined Varian before she said, 'I'll be back in an hour or so, sire. You seem to be coming along quite well.'

She gave him a reassuring smile, but there was unease in her posture that Varian found puzzling. 'Light bless you, my Lord, ' she said as she left the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

Varian scowled at nothing in particular before he looked at the papers that rested on the desk beside him. _Well, might as well indulge in a little 'light reading'._

Varian pulled the papers to him and shuffled through them before he randomly selected one. After a few breaths he looked incredulously at the piece of parchment and replaced it on the table.

_By the Light, he was a whiny little bitch, wasn't he?_

Varian idly flipped through the packet that now rested on his lap and skimmed the contents before he chose another.

He had decided that he should know about the orc he had a visceral hatred for, since the creature _had_ helped keep him alive. Varian was aware of their encounters—he had been there afterall—but the history of the orc had been murky. He was reading reports from spies they had in the Horde, anecdotes from talkative adventurers, non-spy agent impressions of the creature, everything and anything that he could find. People weren't stingy about giving the information to him, and were smart enough to do so without asking why, but there always was a question in their eyes that Varian didn't feel like answering—primarily because he didn't know the answer.

He paused and leaned back as he read a report from one of their deeper spies within the Horde that related how Thrall had dragged Garrosh out of his moping when he proved that the Mag'har's father, while having damned the orcs, had also been their savior.

It was mildly intriguing, and shed light on why the mud-skinned creature would be so protective of a shaman-warrior who was probably stronger and more capable than he.

Varian sighed and flipped the page to read more about the mortal for whom he had gained a hostile respect. The feeling was a very delicate thing, however, as Garrosh's actions in Nagrand and the past made Varian sneer in contempt.

_At least he finally grew a pair when he came to Azeroth_, he thought dryly as set a SI:7 report aside.

The king was of the opinion that Garrosh was a scum-sucking, Light-forsaken piece of refuse, but at least a vaguely honorable and skilled one, and what he was reading was doing nothing to change that. He honestly wasn't sure _why_ he was reading up on the orc—knowing about Garrosh wouldn't change anything.

However, the memory of being _so close_ to the Mag'har, of the warmth of the orc's body against his own, the solid strength that pressed against him and kept him steady haunted his thoughts and made him shudder in an odd mixture of disgust at himself and something...else. Perhaps he was simply looking for something to re-cement that Garrosh wasn't worth his time, wasn't worth this odd thing that had buried within him, and therefore make it go away.

It didn't seem to be working.

He scowled, turned the page, tried and failed to shove the persistent recollections aside, then finally slouched sullenly down into the extra blankets he had found (it seemed like the cold of Northrend permeated everything_,_ as he could only _barely_ get warm). He tossed the papers away from him in disgust and frustration as the memory of Garrosh's arm around him ghosted through him, which made him put his head in his hands.

_No. Just, _no._ It meant nothing—_he_ means nothing. That was all necessity, and we bet he has long forgotten it. It's not _right_ that the memories have dug themselves into us. There __has__ to be a way to get rid of this. We actively _hate_ him—why does this keep on presenting itself? _

Varian looked up, took a deep, shuddering breath and gazed at the papers that were scattered about on the partially-carpeted floor. _If only there was a distraction…we have nothing __but__ memories to keep us company now that Anduin is gone._

Most of his memories were ones he'd rather not recall—the deaths of his father, mentor, wife, and advisor, the razing of Stormwind, and Onyxia's machinations, to name a few. Those memories seemed to possess an ability to override any good ones he had managed to generate—he supposed traumatic events had a deeper impact on the mind than pleasant ones, which made the bad easier to remember.

A soft sigh escaped his lips. _Well, here's hoping that we can get out of here soon. It's already been four days since that place—surely they can't keep us here much longer._

He fixed a mild, unhappy glare at the healing totem that sat innocently next to his bed before he sunk into the covers pulled tightly around him.

He pondered sleep, but felt he was too restless for an attempt to be worth it.

He took a deep breath to try and calm himself and winced as the expansion pulled at the injury on his side that wasn't fully healed yet.

Where Garrosh had held him.

Varian's head fell against the headboard with a _thunk_ as he growled softly.

_This is stupid. He shouldn't occupy our thoughts like this. We have better things to worry about than that piece of alien scum. _No-one_ else has ever demanded this kind of attention from us. Every time our mind begins to wander it fixates on _him.

Varian glowered at the end of the bed.

_Why?_

They had worked well together. Varian's pride would say that he would have survived on his own, but his common sense (what he had) asserted otherwise. It was slowly coming to him, in bits and pieces, just how much _he_ had touched the aberration. They had been little, fleeting things—grasping his arm to drag him out of the way of a blast of magic, protecting him from a slash that should have cleaved him in two—but Garrosh hadn't objected to them. Sure, they had mostly been out of necessity, but the orc hadn't even made a comment about how he didn't need the king's help, even during the endless trek to the door.

It was intriguing, and left him uneasy and oddly…

Varian shook his head sharply. _We sent Anduin to bed, we should try to get some rest as well._

He wiggled down the bed so that his head rested on the ample supply of pillows and closed his eyes resolutely.

_Life is already complicated enough. This will fade._

He had a bad feeling he was lying to himself, though, but chose not to ponder it, his healing-exhausted body dragging him into sleep with surprising rapidity.

–

The king knew that he couldn't avoid the conversation any longer. He had already run a thousand scenarios through his head about how it would go, what he would say, but he eventually decided that he would do it like he did most things—spur-of-the-moment. The method had worked in the past, and he couldn't see why it would fail him in regard to the situation with which he was presented.

To find an Argent peon, all he had to do was open his door, which was convenient.

"Yes, my Lord?" the human male asked once Varian had caught his attention.

"I would speak with Jaina."

There were many things that were left unsaid that the man understood implicitly, and he eventually replied with, "I'll bring her to you. The Kirin Tor have a room that you can use to conduct your meeting."

Varian was taken to chambers within the building claimed by the mages, and sat down to wait as the Lady was found, a headache already forming.

The room was as well-protected as Varian could hope for: two rogues hid in the shadows, and a tiny bit of livery proclaimed their loyalty to the Argent Crusade, he felt _something_ buzz against his senses (from how Jaina flinched when she stepped in, he figured it had something to do with magic), and two crusaders remained within the room while another took a post outside the closed door.

They were taking no chances.

Jaina seemed composed enough, although there were still hints of guilt, pain, and shadows in her eyes that immediately walled him off. He was going to deal with her as he would anyone who had done what she had to him—he couldn't afford to treat the woman who took a seat across from him as his friend.

"Lady Jaina Proudmore," he said calmly, his voice carefully controlled. There was a simmering anger, a low buzz of betrayal and hurt that lay close to his chest, but he couldn't afford to express it—not at the moment, anyway.

"Sire," she responded, her voice steady. He was proud that she was sitting up straight, although the way she was covertly picking at her nails bespoke nerves.

"I've brought you here to discuss your acts of treason."

The woman paled. "Treason?"

Varian nodded stiffly. "You kidnapped the Prince of Stormwind and conspired with something evil in nature to kill both me and my son—which would have ended the Wrynn line. That would have thrown Stormwind into turmoil, left it open for invaders and ne'er-do-wells. Your actions would have destroyed a cornerstone of the Alliance and would have left us open to both Horde and Scourge."

He paused and caught her eyes as he ruthlessly suppressed the rage that had slowly built at the reminder of what she had done. "I am giving you a chance to defend yourself, if only because of how much you have helped me in the past," he told her. There was the briefest pause and his voice became slightly gentler as he asked, "What happened, Jaina?"

Jaina tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the motion obviously an attempt to get herself to calm down. "A focus. It used a focus."

"Which is?"

"A focus is a magical artifact that can be used for a number of purposes. It's been used to find missing children, trace an object, heighten the effectiveness of a spell and such. A focus is made out of something that belongs to a person intimately, like hair."

Varian frowned slightly. "So, a focus was used on you."

"Yes."

"What did it do? Right now, it doesn't sound like it could do anything grievous," he commented dryly.

Jaina shifted in her seat, adjusting her position from discomfort—external or internal was of little consequence. "The purpose of a focus can range from the benign to the malign. I listed what they are _normally_ used for—but, there's always ways to pervert magic, especially with blood involved, which is the most potent reagent."

"So, the thing somehow got your blood and used it against you," Varian stated flatly.

"It wasn't voluntary, I assure you! I know the danger of such things, I would _never_—"

"Then how did it get it?"

Jaina sighed and ran a hand through her hair—it was obvious that she was bothered by the same question. "I _don't know_. The only time would have been during a battle, and I'm very good about not bleeding everywhere."

Silence fell between them as Varian once against shoved down an odd sense of betrayal. "Did you not _fight_ it?" he finally demanded. Jaina was a strong woman—surely it was something she could have at least _resisted._

"The last thing I remember before that room was reading reports in my study at Theramore," she replied. "I had no idea that I was doing anything, that I was anywhere but there. The comprehensiveness of the focus was…_is_…startling."

The king was made uneasy that she hadn't had any idea she was being controlled, as it was entirely possible she was _still_ being controlled—although that seemed highly unlikely, since she was acting more-or-less like herself. Unfortunately, there was a chance that something had gotten smart. He'd have to find a way to make sure Jaina was Jaina only.

"Do you know what the being that controlled you was?" Varian asked.

Jaina shook her head slightly. "Nothing mortal. Not even a demon."

"It wasn't Scourge."

"I hate to ponder what it really was."

There was a long silence as Varian decided what to do to check that Jaina was under no-one's control but her own.

He finally settled on a method and said coldly, "Do you truthfully expect me to believe you?"

Jaina started. "What?"

"The excuse you have given me barely stands. You're one of the best mages—if not _the_ best—in Azeroth, you're a strong-willed woman, and you know _how_ it was able to control you. If you know what it was that could control you, that means you can make one yourself—and I'm guessing that not every mage can create one. Being as adept at the arcane as you are, you should have been able to recognize what was acting on you and fight it."

"Varian! I would _never_—"

"_Silence_," the king snarled. "I don't think you understand the magnitude of the meanings of your actions."

If she had tried to kill just _him_, he would have let her go with nothing more than a 'Don't do that again', since he figured that, having saved his life once, she was afforded one attempt at ending it.

But Anduin's involvement changed things.

Varian caught Jaina's eyes and held them. "Say that I had you stand before an actual trial—would your defense stand?" He shook his head sharply. "Unlikely. How many mages—scholars even—know of what you speak? Some may take what you say on blind belief given your reputation, but others might question whether or not you lie. While such magical control has been seen of late, _you are a mage._ You should be able to do better."

"What would my motivation be?" Jaina demanded. "I have always had nothing but the best interests of you and your son at heart! I helped _save_ you when you were split into two separate people! Do my prior actions mean _nothing_ to you?"

It was the reaction Varian had been searching for. The anger and indignation that flashed in her eyes and the emotion that tightened her posture told him that she truly was no longer anyone's control but her own. It was a relief—he was still physically recovering and didn't feel like dealing with Jaina's mastery of the arcane. It eased a little bit of his tension, but the sense of betrayal remained.

"They mean quite a lot," he replied. "That's why I'm _not_ going to have you killed. You've done far too much for me, for the Alliance." Varian smiled wryly. "You were also a very good friend. I'm not going to trust you anytime soon, though. The burn still hurts."

His abrupt change in attitude obviously threw the woman for a loop.

"What?" she asked.

"Lady Jaina Proudmore, you are forbidden from human lands and holdings indefinitely. Should you be found in human territory other than Theramore, you will be killed." Varian paused, as Lo'Gosh was incredibly unhappy with his compromise—she had hurt his _son _and that was _unforgiveable,_ no matter the circumstances. "I won't stop you from traveling, just know that you are unwelcome wherever the banner of the Stormwind hangs."

Jaina's eyebrows slowly rose. "Ah."

"There will be people in Stormwind screaming for your head depending on the version of what happened here reached the mainland—it might be a good idea to stick to Kalimdor for some time. Once you've proved to me that you _still_ have my and my son's best interests in mind I plan on pardoning you."

_That will take some work, however,_ he admitted inwardly. It would take him a long time to let go of the knowledge that Jaina had been used as an instrument to harm Anduin.

The woman was obviously baffled, but relieved.

"I'm being quite lenient, Jaina," he told her as he fought down his anger once more, although his voice turned severe. "My son's life was on the line. You should know how much he means to me. If it were anyone but you, I wouldn't think twice about killing them."

Varian caught the woman's eyes, and watched as relief was slowly replaced by a creeping unease. "Count yourself lucky, mage," he finished quietly, and the implication that their history was the only reason he _had_ spared Jaina hung between them. "You will be given a portal to Theramore. The next time I see you should better be for when you receive your pardon. Until then, you are exiled from Stormwind."

He waited until she had been led away before he let his shoulders slump and his fingers rub a temple.

He had wanted to ban her from the _Alliance_, but as it wasn't just humans—not anymore—that made up the Alliance, he couldn't really do that. She and Tyrande were good friends, so the Kaldorei leader would have objected to that, and he didn't know where the woman stood in relation to the gnomes, dwarves, and draenei. Still, to be banished from her own people was probably harsh enough.

_It's going to be odd, though, to be unable to speak with her._

A shiver crawled down his spine and he scowled at the table before he stood. He gave the rogues discrete nods before the door to Dalaran was opened for him and he stepped back out into what passed as 'day' in the roof of the world during winter—a kind of twilight that never truly lifted.

He ran a finger along a scar and looked up at the ever-dismal sky. Magical energy kept snow from dusting the streets of Dalaran while trapping heat reminiscent of a spring day in Lordaeron, making the city comfortable in a forbidding land.

It was a wonder of knowledge and magic, and he really couldn't care less.

_We just want to be _home.

He dismissed the Argent Crusade peons who attempted to make him return to his housing, and instead meandered the city for the sake of movement, and had to dodge warriors and priests and druids and paladin as he walked, all of whom used the city as a home-point for their ventures into Northrend.

_It _is_ the most centrally-located location, not to mention being faction-neutral and providing all the comforts of the southern areas of Azeroth in a frozen wasteland,_ he mused as he watched two humans bicker over a map.

He wandered into the central square, entertained by how animated all of the mortals were regardless of the threat the loomed just over the horizon.

_Perhaps it's because so many of them know that they could die out here, in one manner or another,_ he thought unhappily, his good humor squelched. _They fight for Azeroth...but that doesn't change the fact that they might no longer breathe, no longer feel...and might even become Scourge._

The concept made him scowl. _To become a minion for him...he who destroyed his own homeland and permanently tarnished another, who seeks to make everything in Azeroth into his own warped image, to enslave everyone and everything to him as mindless thralls. That would be... _

Varian pulled his coat a little closer and side-stepped a kodo that would have stomped over him had he not been aware of his surroundings. _If there is anyone in this world that we would be better off without, it would be _him_._

_Not Garrosh?_

Varian blinked, sat down on a nearby bench, crossed his arms, and thought as he watched those of various races race by, they intent on their own destination—whether it be a meeting, a parting, or an errand was unimportant.

_Not Garrosh?_ he repeated. _Garrosh is a pain and a threat, but he doesn't seek Azeroth as his own._

_He would kill our people and sunder the Alliance._

_But he has Thrall to rein him in. No-one has any control over the Lich King, which is why he needs to be...ha, dethroned. No king rules forever, and the shorter __his__ reign, the better._

He sighed quietly, then winced at the thought of the work that probably waited for him at the Keep as a result of him having dropped everything to come to Northrend. It didn't matter though—he was sure that anyone who had a child would understand his decision. There was nothing in the world more precious to him than Anduin.

As he was about to stand and return to the abode that had been rented for him, he caught sight of the Mag'har with whom he had briefly partnered. A dark scowl formed on his face and he quickly looked away from the creature. He had hoped that the monster had been returned to Warsong Hold, since he had been told that the orc had managed to survive, but it appeared that he remained in Dalaran—probably in recovery as well.

Every time he saw the mud-skinned creature, his body reminded him of where Garrosh had touched him, even though there was still the disdain for the aberration that curled through him simultaneously. Varian _hated_ him.

_We want this to _go away, he thought heatedly. _Why do we remember? We don't even find him physically attractive, but—_

_But?_

Varian tried to turn his thoughts away before they followed that particular train of thought too far, but they always circled back to the 'but', to the admission that there _was_ something there, an emotion that he despised but couldn't remove, a...there was no good word for what he felt.

His grip on his coat tightened and the glare he leveled at the cobbled street should have melted the stones.

_This is insane, _Varian snarled inwardly and stood. _I mean nothing to him, and he sure as the nether means nothing to me._

He turned and walked towards house that was temporarily his, as the likelihood of him running into the Mag'har there was non-existent; unfortunately, the omnipresent chill of Northrend hadn't left him, he had a headache from the situation with Jaina, and the _thing_ that tormented him whenever he thought of the Mag'har had taken up residence in his chest.

_Light, I wish that this would leave me alone_, he groused inwardly after he entered the house that had been procured and frowned when the heat didn't even make a dent in the cold he felt.

"It's nothing," he murmured softly to himself as he walked to his room.

He entered, then closed the door behind him and reluctantly took off his coat before he placed it on the chair next to an obviously refreshed totem, which Varian looked at with incredulity and relief. If the healer wasn't here waiting for him, it said she believed that he was well enough to take care of himself, but not well enough that he didn't need the totem.

Varian sat down on the bed and ran a hand through his hair, taking it out of its horse-tail. He rubbed his eyes and sighed heavily. _Never easy._

Varian heard the door to his borrowed room open and looked over to see the healer who had attached herself to him standing at the door.

"Yes?" he asked and failed to keep a sullen note out of his voice.

'Back from your meeting with the Lady, I see.'

He looked at her and a frown marred his features. "You know?"

The draenei arched one delicate eyebrow. 'Dalaran isn't a large city. Gossip travels as fast as mages.'

Varian grunted in acknowledgement before he asked, "What do you want with me?"

The draenei paused for a moment before she let out a soft, drawn-out sigh. 'We need to speak about something, your Highness.'

Varian sat up slightly straighter as he watched the shaman close the door behind her. "What is it?"

She refreshed the totem that sat unobtrusively beside him before saying, 'It's relatively general knowledge about the lady and the overlord, but the creature that commanded them is murky in both of their minds, unclear even to the most skilled shaman. The Mag'har refuses to speak of it—refuses to speak about anything of what happened within that construct. I _need_ you to tell me what happened, if only about the thing you fought.'

Varian paused for a long moment, the memories of the battle unfortunately clear in his mind—especially the time when he had been _so close_ to the orc, but no-one needed to know about that.

He simply shook his head slightly as his hand unconsciously found its way to his side to rub over the scar from a barely-dodged cleave. "I don't know what it was. It just was...unnatural. Evil." He shrugged slightly. "I don't believe it was a member of the Scourge, but who knows how Arthas' mind works anymore."

The female looked pensive, then asked. 'Did it touch you at all? Not with energy or spells, did it actually _physically_ touch you?'

"Once, yes."

The shaman's shoulders tensed slightly. 'I see,' she said as a finger ran along one of her face tentacles. 'Did you feel anything afterwards? Burning, aching, etc? I didn't see any marks on your body.'

Varian thought, then shook his head. "I don't know. I was hurt badly—what would one more ache be?"

She tugged on the same tentacle lightly as she obviously thought. 'Mm.' She caught and held his eyes with her gently glowing ones. 'I want you to be careful, my lord. What you were cleansed of, what we had to fight against to restore your body, was quite powerful. You _must_ tell someone the moment you feel as if there's something out of the ordinary.'

Her earnest concern made Varian wary. "You already suspect that there is something wrong."

She lightly bit her lip and looked at her healing totem. 'I do not know. It is a feeling, and nothing more. But a shaman must learn to trust what the spirits and the elements whisper to her, and they are uneasy around you...and not just because you don't believe in them. So, please. Be careful.'

Even though Varian had a very thorough dislike for healers and their incessant fussing, it had been ground into him that, no matter his opinion, he should respect what healers said.

"I will," he replied, and the shaman seemed relieved.

'Thank you, sire.' There was a brief pause before she continued, 'I think you are about ready to leave.'

Varian's eyebrows snapped up, but he refused to let his pleasure at the concept show. "Really?"

The shaman nodded and a small smile flit across her face. 'I just want to check one more thing. If you would…'

The draenei gestured and Varian moved to the middle of the room as indicated. "What are you going to check?"

The king jumped a little when a number of totems dropped around him, and even more so at the foreign energies that flowed sedately through him.

'The health of your soul. Try not to move,' the shaman said as she stood before him, healing energy gathered around her hands. 'This will not take long.'

She pressed her glowing hands to his temples and Varian shivered as he felt a different kind of healing energy meander through him as it sought out parts of him that he didn't know _needed_ to be healed—it felt deeper than just his body, although the now-familiar energy from the totem was there, too.

Three boring minutes passed before the shaman's hands fell to her sides, but the pensive, troubled look on her face made Varian wary.

'From what I can tell, other than the trauma of black magic acting on your soul, you are fine.' The totems around him vanished in small puffs of smoke, but the draenei remained still, posture tense and uneasy.

'I think that a paladin should see you,' she eventually said after a long pause.

"Why?" Varian asked, incredulous. When she remained silent, he continued, "You think there's something wrong still."

The shaman shifted on her hooves, digging tiny scratches into the hardwood. 'There is something..._strange_. It's very, very deep within you, sunk into your body in a way I can't pry. A paladin might be able to figure out what I'm sensing.'

"Do you think it's dangerous?" Varian was more worried for the safety of his son than himself. He could handle whatever came, but if it endangered Anduin...

'I…I'm not sure," the shaman answered. 'We'll see. I've placed a marker on it—perhaps the paladin will be able to follow it to a conclusion.'

The phrasing made Varian wary, but the charming, late-middle-aged, slight woman who entered a moment or two after Adralisa left seemed more like someone's favorite aunt than a person who could command the Light in the manner of a paladin.

"Let's have a look at you, my king," she said, her voice warm as she extended her hands. "I'm sure that you're _fine_, but people are neurotic, considering your station," she finished with wry humor.

Varian had to work to suppress a smile and placed his hands in hers.

She tightened her grip so that their hands were firmly clasped, and her eyes went blank as the smallest of a healing glow formed around her hands.

He felt the pressure of someone exerting magic on his body and held still, even though it felt different from the other healers' energies in that it was almost _painful_. It buzzed along his nerves and made his body tingle as when his foot would fall asleep. He forced himself to be mature and not squirm, but it was a close thing.

_Healing shouldn't hurt,_ he thought uneasily, especially when a particularly bad spike of pain shuddered through him.

Another wave of pain washed through him, and it was only because he reminded himself that doing anything other than holding still might only hurt him even more—or, worse, call Anduin to him—that he managed to remain stationary.

Eventually, the energy drained out of him, and it was only through an effort of will that he didn't sag in relief.

That, and that the woman's hands were almost painfully tight on his own.

"Sire."

Varian looked at the paladin, and was startled by the sad, somehow accusatory look in her eyes. "Yes?"

"If you weren't important to Azeroth, and if you weren't mostly human, by the vows I made to the Light, I would have had to kill you."

Varian's eyebrows went up sharply and he wouldn't have been able to move away even if she hadn't had him rooted to the spot. "What? _Why_?" he demanded.

"Because you, my Lord, are an agent of the Scourge."


	5. Reaction

**Author**: I swear there will be slash. Eventually. Once the plot decides to stop getting in the way and scenes desist in writing themselves. : / This chapter was going to be _much_ longer, but I decided it would be better to split it in two. I think it would have been overwhelming otherwise.

**Disclaimer**: Imagine if I owned Blizzard...would I be posting things here, or making them canon?

**Warnings**: Varian's temper, violent, possibly disturbing, imagery.

**Chapter 5**

Varian's first reaction to any threat was anger.

While most mortal men would be reeling from the knowledge that they are, in part, something that they _loathe_ and have been fighting against, it left Varian with the very strong desire to hit something.

Hard.

Repeatedly.

Preferably the creature who was formerly Prince Arthas Menethil of Lordaeron.

However, even Varian recognized that storming his way through Icecrown Citadel to go punch the Arthas in the face was a Bad Idea, if only because he might die, and dying meant it would be easier for him to fall victim to the bastard's control, and he didn't want that to happen.

_We need to tell someone._

_No,_ he thought as he paced. _We cannot tell anyone._

_Why?_ _They'll be prepared for the worst if we tell them._

Varian shook his head sharply. _They'll panic, and that's the _last_ thing anyone wants._

_Still, they can't be _completely_ unaware._

_Who would we tell?_ Varian thought with a dark scowl. _Jaina? I can't trust her. Anduin? There is no way our son is learning about this—he'd make himself sick with worry. There's no-one we implicitly trust in court, we refuse to stay here in Northrend any longer, there's no-one at the Cathedral, _especially_ with that Scarlet Crusade fanatic…_

Varian took a deep breath and let it out in an angry sigh. _We are the _King of Stormwind_. We cannot, _will not_, succumb to this. We have a duty to our people, to our son, and we will not fail in that. This thing in us will never mature. We will not allow it._

Varian looked over at the desk where a trinket that was full to bursting with the Light was lying.

"_It will help keep the Scourge at bay," she said._

_We will never need it._

_Take it anyway._

He walked over to the desk and picked it up carefully. It was hot in his hands, so he put it in a hidden pocket in his cloak.

_What will we do now?_

Varian began pacing again as he thought, brow furrowing in concentration. _We'll go back to Stormwind_.

_Won't that be dangerous?_

_We will be away from Northrend and near the Cathedral—distance and the Light may help._

His plan wasn't water-tight, but it was the best he could come up with, and as he refused to discuss his…situation...with anyone else, well, it would have to suffice.

It had been quite the quiet argument to get the paladin to keep her peace. However, as she was a citizen of Stormwind, and after he had submitted himself to a cleansing and her leaving a little bit of Light energy within him to fight the Scourge back, along with giving him the trinket, she had acquiesced to his command.

Varian couldn't help but muse: _We wonder if Garrosh has this as well. The Horde doesn't trust paladin as the Alliance does—who would, considering what the "Blood Elves" did to get their power? He might not even know he _has_ it…_

The thought made him oddly uneasy.

The king was restless and ready to be rid of Northrend, of his enforced closeness to the Horde and the presence of Scourge. It had been far too long since he had even spent a few consecutive _days_ in the Keep, let alone time enough to actually get anything _done._

He looked at the door and sighed. _All we have to do is make it to the portals and then we'll be back in Stormwind and away from everything that has been making our life _miserable.

Unfortunately, luck had never really warmed to him.

He was walking to where the portals were when he had the misfortune of running into Garrosh, and Varian's already fragile hold on his temper thinned to nearly nothing. It was only distantly alarming, how quickly the Mag'har affected his mood, but since he was already on-edge and he _hated_ the orc, it made sense that a confrontation would push him to just before the breaking point. That the awkward _thing_ that lived within him asserted its presence didn't help matters.

There was a tense silence before Varian drawled venomously, "Pity you survived."

The orc sneered. "Even the spirits must hate you, to have you still among the living."

The mention of 'living' reminded Varian—_again_—that he _wasn't_ entirely alive, which made him growl, the sound low, dark, and dangerous.

The reaction obviously made Garrosh wary. It appeared that even the orc could tell when Varian was one wrong word away from violence, regardless of being in a neutral Sanctuary like Dalaran.

"I don't need to waste my time talking to scum like you," the king snarled and moved towards the portals once more.

"Running away?"

Varian's delicate hold on his temper snapped, and he forwent the use of his sword and simply lunged at the creature, itching to get his hands on him, to _feel_ the orc hurt.

It obviously wasn't the reaction Garrosh had entirely anticipated, as the Mag'har was surprised enough to allow Varian to get a solid hit that sent the male staggering backwards. Varian pressed the attack, and ignored the shouts of surprise and demands for him to stop.

Garrosh gathered himself quickly, however, and Varian took _glee_ in the fight, in getting the opportunity to hurt the orc without steel or magic or people getting in the way.

Varian didn't notice when both he and Garrosh shrugged off ice magic, their steps not even slowed by the freezing energy—all he cared about was the fight he was engaged in with the Mag'har. It was obvious that Garrosh was ignoring the command of his Warchief in favor of their confrontation, since Varian could distantly hear a _very_ annoyed voice yelling at Garrosh in Orcish.

It was painfully apparent that the orc had little experience fighting a human hand-to-hand, which was unsurprising to Varian—it was only recently that the creature had even been introduced to humanity, afterall. It was glorious, to be putting the orc in his place in front of witnesses.

The armor they were both wearing would prevent them from sustaining anything more than bruises or sprains, but it was still satisfying to see the orc go skidding across the pavement, people obviously having given up getting between the two of them until an opportunity presented itself.

It had been quite some time since he had fought with his fists. It satisfied something _primal_ within him, perhaps brought out the Ghost Wolf he was partly named for.

It also felt obscene, how much he enjoyed having his hands on Garrosh. It made him smile fiercely, brought heat and power flooding through his veins, and every blow—given or received—was somehow cathartic. It was a _release_ of all the tension he had from the news he had been given, from the strain he felt for his ever-endangered Kingdom, and from the awkward emotion that lived within him.

Varian met a strike from Garrosh with an open palm, his arm giving enough that Garrosh fell forward on Varian's offered punch. The orc grunted as air was forced out of him, but swept Varian's legs out from under him, throwing the king off-balance. Varian went scrambling for a hold, and ended up hooking his fingers on Garrosh's belt, pulling him down with him with him, turning in the process, slamming the orc down beside him.

While it hurt _him_, from the grunt that the orc voiced, it hadn't felt much better for the Mag'har—it might have been worse, considering Varian had put some force behind it.

It also put him _very_ close to the orc, something that he was briefly hyper-aware of before rolling away and into a crouch. Having been so close to the orc, to feel his body, really _feel_ it, right next to him, had thrilled Varian in a way he had never felt before.

The king was about to press his advantage as the orc recovered when the king noticed that the Mag'har's eyes were glowing ever so slightly. It wasn't the demonic red of when the orcish people were tainted, but something…warped. It was the smallest of lights, a deep red, the color of blood on old wounds that still oozed.

It was _wrong_.

That snapped him out of his rage and made him put substantial distance between the orc and himself. Varian would agree that he wasn't the most intelligent man on Azeroth, nor the most observant, but what stared him in the face—figuratively and literally—was something even _he_ understood.

_Oh, Light, _he thought as he watched the orc warily get to his feet. _He has it, too._

Their eyes met and Varian was oddly relieved to see that the monster's gaze was back to its normal disgusting amber hue.

The pause gave people enough time to come in between them. Varian heard all kinds of worried reprimands, but his eyes hadn't left the orc's. The king knew that if someone of higher station told Garrosh to stop, he would have to, but Varian _had_ no-one above him in station—people could try to intervene, but no-one could _technically_ tell him what to do.

"Father!"

Well, almost no-one.

Varian turned his attention away from the Mag'har to the boy who was squirming his way through the Kirin Tor to get to him. "Yes?" Varian asked as the child came to a huffy stop before him.

"How do you always get into trouble?" Anduin half-accused.

"It wasn't intentional—trouble has a way of finding me," Varian muttered.

The look Anduin gave him was pure incredulity.

"I'm serious!" Varian protested. "I had honestly meant to find my way to the portals and go home. I'm sick of the stench of the Horde."

Anduin heaved a long-suffering sigh and grabbed one of his father's hands. "Well, I'm gonna make _sure_ you get back to Stormwind now."

Varian spared one last glance for Garrosh, who was getting told off by Thrall, but the Mag'har was looking more troubled that abashed, obviously not listening.

_He feels something. He didn't before, but now he can tell that there is something…else…in him._

Anduin tugged on his father's hand in a silent plea to _move on_, which the king listened to, and turned away from the male he despised.

_We don't want to see him Scourge,_ he admitted inwardly as he allowed himself to be dragged along by his son.

_Why? It would give us _reason_ to kill the piece of refuse._

_Because…it would be a _mercy_, killing him. We want a _challenge._ We want him _whole.

_We want him _in general_._

Varian winced inwardly at that, and was almost surprised to find himself in front of the portal to Stormwind, as his son looked at him expectantly.

Varian gave the boy a small smile and ran the fingers of his free hand through his son's hair. "I'm sick of Northrend," he muttered.

Anduin smiled. "Me too."

"Well, then. Shall we?"

–

Stormwind _burned._

It was a sight to behold as he stood in the entryway from the harbor and observed the wanton destruction. The rooftops of shops burned fierce and hot as the fire leapt nimbly from one building to another. He watched as a structure caved in, as wood creaked and popped and came down in a heap of embers and splinters that shattered out onto the stone pavement and left tiny trails of flame in their wake. The scents of tarnished livelihoods wafted through the air, and the sweet smell of food clashed with the ghastly odor of a tanner's shop. The woods burned different colors from the different materials chosen, treatments, and age, and painted the city a smoldering orange. In the dwarven district, something detonated, which sent a plume of black and green high into the air above the city that curled into and around the smoke and tinged the hazy sky a sickly green. The destruction would have been beautiful, in a twisted kind of way, had it not been for its cause.

Instead, it was more of a desecration, a mockery, a sin.

Undead abominations pulled apart homes with hooks and blunt fingers as they searched for any hidden living as they drooled putrid slime that stained the streets, and the green ichor congealed in the cracks in the cobblestones. Geists scampered across the bridges and walkways, past packs of ghouls that feasted on groups of fallen mortals, their endless hunger barely satisfied by the crunch of bones and the wet tear of cooling flesh. A pair of necromancers raised the bodies of Stormwind guards to become their own in undeath as a newly-minted banshee cried in rage and sorrow.

He looked over to the usually pristine waters of the canals to see bodies floating face-down in the water, unmoving and obviously dead, waiting to be fished out by skeletal minions under the command of cultists.

There was fighting throughout the city, Scourge engaged in heated battles with desperate survivors, any fallen resurrected and enslaved. Beneath the crackling fire were sounds of pain and panic, of mortals struggling to cling to life while protecting both the city and themselves.

He finally moved forward, his steps slow, deliberate, and languid, he in no hurry. The fastest path to where he was commanded to be was through Cathedral Square, but it was the one place in the city that still stood strong under the destruction wrought around it.

So, he decided to take the scenic route.

He meandered into the Park, the flames that climbed high around him of little consequence. He was immune to the scorching heat, and untouched by the sight of most of the foliage and critters that made their homes in the district blackened and dead. He turned around a building and saw a group of druids still fighting off the flames and for their lives as the forces of the Lich King surrounded them. A bear roared in pain and rage as it swiped at the undead that crowded it, the druid doing their best to keep the minions away from the tree that stood as far away as possible from the reaching fire. He felt healing energy surge from beneath him, and the ground was briefly covered by sparkles, which crawled up his body and mended all the cuts and bruises that he had picked up through daily existence. He was sure that the druid hadn't meant to heal an enemy, but it seemed as if the energy wasn't picky. Other druids shifted into the odd moonkin form and called down nature and arcane spells and obliterated dozens of undead.

Dozens meant nothing.

He could already feel the dead being called from inside the shops, and any druid that fell was immediately turned into a member of the Scourge. He winced inwardly as a risen druid shifted into the panther-like form they possessed, the coloration of the fur warped as they turned against their former colleagues.

It was a vivid reminder of what he had been made to do to Broll to achieve the addition of druids to the ranks of the Scourge.

He turned away from the battle and found the way out of the Park and towards the Mage quarter, ignoring the keening, warped victory cries of the Scourge as they pressed ever inward—the living tired, but the dead did not.

The Mage quarter sparkled and popped underneath the heat of the flames and too-inquisitive Scourge, and fumes clashed and mingled and left him a little light-headed. Shops full of books and magical ingredients ignited, only adding fuel to the starving fire that fluttered between buildings.

He felt the percussion of magic hitting the ground, and stopped as he turned a curve to look up at the central tower. A group of mages and warlocks were making their stand in the structure, fending off the Scourge that were slowly, inexorably, progressing up the ramp. Demonic fire entwined with an icy blizzard that was called from the aether, and rained destruction down upon the forces of the Lich King. Demons clashed with undead, but the nether-beings slowly turned against their masters as the creeping illness of the Scourge seeped into their wounds.

He knew that seeing that would tear his partner apart—the male really had been unable to escape the taint of his history.

He knew the magic-wielders would fall in time, and his steps moved him ever onward.

He left the magical nexus and crossed over the canals, the water the murky color of the sky, drenched in blood, littered with bodies as a pond with lily-pads.

He moved into the trade district, and saw the marks of intense fighting. The streets were coated in the red blood of gnomes, humans, and dwarves, with splashes of purple Kaldorei and blue draenei mingled in. He saw Scourge creatures splattered across storefronts, shattered windows with shredded mortal remains, and a severed plate-armored arm lay limply across a threshold, the rest of the body nowhere in sight. While it was entirely possible that the person had walked away from losing a limb, it was equally probable that they were now part of an abomination, or perhaps the ghoul that lumbered through the alleyway was the remnant of whoever they had been.

He stepped over the body of a fallen draenei male, the scorch-marks of a magma totem evident beside him. The power that curled within him _begged_ to be used to raise the benign Eredar as his own—what was the power gifted to him good for, if not to be used?

He shuddered and spat a curse before he continued towards where there were still sounds of confrontation. When he rounded the corner he found Scourge and mortals locked in a heated battle, the central square a slaughterhouse. The people of Stormwind and the Alliance were obviously trying to keep the undead out of Elwynn Forest, fighting with the strength of desperation, as the Scourge kept pushing them back through sheer numbers and unflagging energy.

He stood and watched the battle for a moment before he turned and gestured, and invoked some of the disgusting power that lay at his core. The undead and Scourge-beings fell back as they hissed and snarled, and took up a barricade that blocked any exit from the Trade District to anywhere else in Stormwind, but left the entrance to Elwynn Forest alone. He knew that the defenders were wary of the respite, but he had done what he was able to do.

He felt that the Lich King let him retain most of his volition so that when it was taken away it was all the more humiliating.

He moved out of the Trade district and meandered his way towards Old Town, but decided to stick to the street running along the canals. He didn't feel like seeing the devastation wrought on the most historic part of the city, but the cries of pain and rage wafting over the crackling of the flames told him that fighting continued in that district as well.

He turned the corner and looked up the walkway that lead to the Keep.

Besides the Trade district, the most heated fighting was occurring there.

Arcane energy seared through the air as the elements themselves rose to do battle at the behest of the shaman. He watched the confrontation as his hand rested lightly on his hip, which was purposefully devoid of a sword. He didn't need one to kill droves of mortals, anyway.

Each mortal death replaced a Scourge, and there was a nearly endless supply of Scourge that could be thrown at the defenders of Stormwind—the Stockades were no longer full of living and a charred corpse meant nothing to necromancy.

His sources had told him that the Prince was no longer in the Keep—which was understandable, since that would be where the Lich King would throw most of his forces, thinking that everyone was as much of an idiot as he. He was in no mood to contradict those orders, as they served his purpose, so he had directed the majority of the forces towards the Keep. Doing that had helped give evacuations in other parts of the city a slightly greater degree of success, since it meant fewer undead elsewhere.

He stood perfectly still and thought, 'I am here—you see what is happening. Your forces are winning. Now, leave me be.'

There was the briefest flicker of recognition that made him shudder and bare his teeth in snarl. He _hated_ how close he was held, how tight of a leash he wore—he fought it every second, but it wasn't enough—it was never enough. Not if he was _here_, doing what he was_._

He growled in displeasure, then turned away. He wanted to stop the destruction of the city before it _entirely_ burned, but he had needed to let the destruction proceeded a little, let _him_ see what was happening. Thankfully, a lot of the city was stone anymore, so rebuilding it would not take quite so much effort, and would hopefully result in fewer political riots.

He turned away from the Keep and walked around the sidewalk outside the Dwarven District—it smelled strange, and he couldn't feel any Scourge _or_ mortal presence from inside the area, so he figured that whatever toxic material had been released inside would be equally bad for him.

He finally came to the wall of Scourge that ringed Cathedral Square, the various creatures hissing and snarling at the consecrated ground whose power had been magnified by the Light-wielders that huddled within for protection.

The Light meant little to him.

He took a step onto the holy ground and shuddered as the energy raced through him before it settled in him, burning away a little of the Scourge within him, at least for a little while. He let out a long, shivering sigh before he took another step. He felt better with each footfall, the blight within him tamed and the Lich King no longer omnipresent. He knew that as the Light that rattled through him it changed his appearance and reverted it to that of someone who vaguely resembled the man he had been before Arthas had sunk his claws into him.

So, when he finally turned the corner that would lead him into the square proper, he looked—and probably felt—like nothing more than a Death Knight, and not one controlled by the Scourge.

He assumed such was indeed the case when no-one tried to attack him, and instead looked mildly relieved.

"Another survivor," a priest breathed in relief.

He wanted to laugh. He really, truly did. He was very much a survivor—but not in the way that the priest probably meant.

He looked around until he found the person who seemed to be in charge.

"Are things as bad as I hear they are out there?" the paladin asked warily.

He looked out at the burning city. "The Scourge outnumber the living, and with each new death their numbers are bolstered." He shook his head. "The city is lost. This is the only district to not see blood coating the stones."

"Will Stormwind never see peace?" an older priest lamented. "First orcs, now Scourge! If only King Varian were here…"

He smiled bitterly, the statement leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

"I would suggest taking the catacombs out of the city," he said. "While Cathedral Square may stand strong, it will be cut off from all other supplies and help. It is best to leave."

"We cannot give up!"

His breath hitched at the familiar voice and he turned to see a resolute-looking boy standing not too far away. "The king would defend Stormwind until his last breath."

"My prince, _you_ are Stormwind—not the city."

Prince Anduin shifted in obvious discomfort, both at having been recognized and the statement.

"Please," he begged, "leave this place."

"We can't—survivors…"

"By now, there _are_ no survivors. They have either escaped to Elwynn, are dead…or undead."

"How do you know that?" the paladin asked carefully.

He paused, then sighed in frustration. "I don't have _time_…" he muttered. He carefully knelt down, every movement slow and deliberate, and pressed his hands against the hallowed stones. A surge of unholy energy akin to a Death Knight's ability spread out beneath him before an overlay of desecration extended the radius by ten yards, then a wave of dark black draining energy swept out and added another twenty, filling the square with unholy power that soaked up the Light in the stones and obliterated it, leaving a lingering energy that crawled with blight and darkness.

He knew that his appearance had changed back to that of what he had been before stepping onto sanctified ground, and he knew that everyone in the courtyard—for he had spared all present, as he was proving a point more than trying to kill—recognized him for who and what he was.

He stood and his eyes swept the courtyard, and he idly noted the various degrees of terror and horror reflected on the faces of all present.

It was the fear in Anduin's eyes that _hurt_, though. The terror and accusation made his soul cry out in pain and beg for absolution from the sins he had committed—and would continue to commit, as long as the Lich King had a chokehold on his mind and body.

"This city belongs to the Scourge," he said flatly, his voice distant, hollow, and echoing. "There is an entrance to the catacombs in the Argent Dawn shop—use that to escape. Unless you want me to escort you through Stormwind to the main gate…?"

The very idea was obviously abhorrent, so those present sneered and spit at him as they used ire to hide their fear. He watched until they were all gone before he sighed, turned, and walked out of the Square as his heart twisted within his chest.

**Well done, Commander.**

It was the horror of that voice that woke Varian up.

He stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment before the meaning of everything crashed down on him.

"_Never_," he snarled before he quickly stood as tension and anger buzzed through him. He threw on some decent clothing before stalking out of his room, taking the hidden passageways that had been built in case of another attack on Stormwind, the near-absolute darkness swinging between comforting and terrifying.

He came out near the harbor, slightly calmer—but not by much.

"_Never!"_ He whispered vehemently. "To even think that...that..." he growled in incoherence as he paced the exit of the passageway, the sea breeze chasing away some of the memories of putrid smoke. The recollection of the streets littered with bodies of the defenders of Stormwind, of his home city brought to her knees was...disgusting. Horrifying.

And that it was implied that it was _his_ doing made it even worse.

He shook his head sharply and glared in the general direction of Northrend.

"I would rather _die_ than betray my people like that," he snarled quietly. "I am not like _you_."

_We would never do that to Anduin. Ever. We couldn't have him live with the knowledge that his _father_ is _Scourge_._

Varian shook his head sharply. _Never._

He forced himself still and watched the pale light of dawn reflect off the surprisingly tranquil waters of Stormwind harbor, and comforted himself in the quiet stillness, in that the only smoke came from the forges of the dwarven district and the only cries that he heard were from the seagulls that circled in the sky. He still felt a little queasy, but thought he could return to the Keep and be civil.

He turned and started to walk back towards the Keep, and knew that the nightmare would haunt him all day. He shuddered and his step hitched as the image of a mangled corpse flashed through his mind. His stride became more resolute after that, his hands clenched lightly at his sides.

_It was nothing more than a dream. We will protect our people. We will _never_ let Stormwind fall while we are king—especially not to that _monster_._

He exited the catacombs, slightly chilled, but, otherwise, he felt better. The promise to himself regarding his people had assuaged his uneasiness a little bit, and he knew that seeing Anduin would only reinforce that oath.

He also knew that it would be easier for him to be tolerant of fools since, idiots or not, they were still citizens of Stormwind, and therefore someone he had sworn to protect.

He ran his hand through hair he had forgotten to pull back and growled, "You will _never_ win, Arthas. Stormwind will not fall to the likes of you."


	6. Changes

**Author**: Two days late, yes, but it's here. Wish my brother a happy graduation from undergraduate today, 5/22. :)

**Warnings**: Varian's temper, Arthas being a jackass, perhaps a swear here and there.

**Disclaimer**: Arthas would still be alive, and a trip to the Tournament grounds would be a whole lot more interesting if I owned WoW.

**Chapter 6**

Varian wasn't a religious man. He had seen the Light fail too many times to believe in it anymore and the idea of revering spirits was lost on him. However, he knew that there were Powers out there, and that they could help, harm, or both—as the Light was doing for him as he stood in the Cathedral of the Light in Stormwind.

He ignored the curious and/or concerned looks he got from passers-by as he scowled darkly at the floor.

_You think this will be easy, Arthas? You think we'll fall to _you_? You're more of an idiot than we thought if you think you can convert _us.

He rubbed his eyes in agitation and winced imperceptibly as he shifted on his feet in an attempt to work feeling back into his legs.

_Light, this is annoying._

Contact with holy energy didn't _really_ hurt him—not in the way it decimated the undead—but it was still unpleasant and left him numb wherever he touched it with his bare skin, and contact with the Light through armor or clothing made the area tingle as when his foot would fall asleep. It was one of the things that he didn't bother mentioning to people, if only to keep them from panicking and doing something stupid.

Even though it was uncomfortable, the Light also pushed back an odd feeling in his chest. He had never understood what people who wielded the arcane or the Light or the elements had meant when they said that the energy was a part of them and sat _within_ them somehow, until the present. Now he _knew_ there was something lodged within him—probably Scourge. As that was a distinct possibility, he sought out areas saturated with the Light, which shoved the energy down and weakened it to the point that Varian couldn't feel it.

_I will _not_ become _Scourge, the king snarled inwardly.

Thankfully, all that had happened in the fortnight since he had returned from Northrend was what had happened while he had been there—headaches and the omnipresent cold. The headaches were worse than the cold because they fluctuated between so bad he could barely see and nothing more than the usual stress-induced ones he suffered. The cold he had adapted to, and didn't even feel it anymore, not unless someone touched him. The temperature gradient was alarmingly obvious then, so he simply kept himself out of contact; it was safer that way, anyway.

_The dreams are new, though,_ he admitted as he shifted on his feet.

_But, dreams are dreams. They mean little_.

The dreams ranged from vague impressions to so clear that he swore he was living them. However, after that first nightmare of Stormwind, things had relaxed slightly, but it wasn't as if what he had endured recently was much better.

He dreamt of his sword being dark with the blood of his allies as he yelled in triumph at the demise of a leader among those who fought the offensive in Northrend. He saw the Argent Tournament ground covered in bodies, stood beside another figure as they watched Valiance Keep burn, smiled in dark amusement as the Scourge spread across Sholazar Basin and claimed a bastion of life for their own.

It made him sick to think that he would betray Azeroth in such a way.

But, again, dreams were nothing but dreams.

Varian blinked as he was pulled out of his thoughts and looked around covertly. He could have sworn he heard someone calling his name, but no-one was looking his way or approaching him.

He gave an inward shrug and turned to leave, as the tingle had become annoying enough that he couldn't bear it any longer. He gave a nearby priest a polite nod before he exited the Cathedral. He walked out of the sanctified building and sighed softly as feeling slowly returned to his legs while he traveled back to the Keep.

The sight of a closed shop reminded him of the work that waited for him—missives had slowly piled up on his desk, and he had less time than problems.

_All we ever get is bad news,_ Varian groused._ Can't we get _good_ news? Like, the Lich King is defeated or the Warchief is dead? That would be nice._

He covertly rubbed his temples in an attempt to suppress his headache, as it was worse than usual. He could still function_,_ but it was an omnipresent throb that left him more irritable and short-tempered than he would like.

Varian made his way up the hallway towards the throne room to see his son waiting for him there; the boy appeared concerned.

"Father," Anduin greeted and met him halfway down the corridor.

"Anduin," Varian replied warmly. It was always easier to push aside any creeping influence by having the physical reminder of _why_ he was fighting so hard nearby.

Anduin reached out and took his hand before Varian could dodge, and the difference in temperature between the two of them startled him. The difference was more pronounced than usual, and Varian had spent quite some time in the Cathedral, which was worrisome.

"Father—!" Anduin half-exclaimed, but Varian cut him off with a short shake of his head.

"I'm fine."

"But—"

"Really, Anduin, I'm _fine._ There's no need for you to worry."

"Father…"

"Don't you have studies to attend to?"

"My instructors gave me time off, since I couldn't really concentrate with you seeming so…"

As Anduin groped for a word, Varian gave his son an attempt at a reassuring smile. "I'm alright, Anduin. You don't have to worry about me."

"But, _father_…you…I…I don't want anything to happen to you," Anduin finished in a whisper, aware that people had begun to eavesdrop.

Varian smiled gently and ran his fingers carefully through his son's hair, doing his best not to touch the boy's scalp. "You'll make a wonderful healer—you're already learning how to fuss."

Anduin huffed. "It's not _fussing_."

"Yes, it is," Varian replied.

Anduin glared up at him before reluctance and unease crept into his posture. "Can we talk somewhere else?" he asked hesitantly.

Varian frowned, but gestured for Anduin to follow him.

The moment the two of them had entered his study and the door was locked behind them, Anduin said, "The priests and paladin can tell when you've been in the Cathedral."

"I make no secret of my travels," Varian replied.

"No it's not…" Anduin scratched his head vigorously, obviously doing his best to formulate a coherent statement. "The Light is gone," he eventually said.

Varian's eyebrows came together sharply in a frown. "Gone?"

"They don't know I overhear them—they think that I don't understand what they say. But…dad, wherever you've stood, the Light is _gone_. The ground is no longer consecrated and it takes _hours_ to restore the holy energy."

"What?" Varian asked, voice flat.

Anduin shifted on his feet. "I…went, yesterday, once you had left. I looked. They're _right_."

Varian's stomach dropped, but he simply shook his head. "Perhaps the Light isn't as powerful as they think."

There was a brief silence before Anduin asked, "Dad, you brought something back from Northrend, didn't you?"

"Anduin, you know what came with me."

"No, no, _inside_ you," Anduin protested before he continued, voice laced with terrified concern, "Dad, _please_! Tell me what's wrong!"

Guilt washed through Varian at the abject panic in his son's eyes, but he couldn't tell Anduin what was wrong. He looked away to his desk and ran his fingers across a missive from Northrend.

"It's nothing. I can handle it."

"Not when the Light goes away where you stand! Something is really, really wrong!"

Varian shook his head sharply. "Anduin, I am _the King of Stormwind._"

"That doesn't matt-"

"Yes, it does. It means I cannot, will not, fall to anyone or anything that is thrown at me. This will pass."

"Dad, it's _getting worse_. The longer you stay, the more you drain the Light and you look more and more exhausted every day. And you're so cold_!_ It doesn't even feel like you're alive_._"

Varian snarled quietly at the corner, as rage rose within him. "I _am _alive, and I will stay that way."

"There's a chance you'll die?" Anduin exclaimed.

Varian couldn't say 'No,I'm not going to die' because Anduin was a smart boy and would probably figure out the truth, so said instead: "There's _always_ the chance I might die—but you can be sure I won't go down without a fight."

"Dad—"

"Anduin," Varian murmured and knelt so that he was on eye-level with his son. "Believe in me."

"But…"

Varian wanted to reach out _so badly_, to touch his son and comfort him, but he knew that the cold that permeated his body would only make the boy worry more. "Anduin. No matter what happens, I will never forget my duty to my people. And I will never, _ever_ stop loving you."

It took less effort than he had thought it would, to say that out loud. He was never one for displays of mushiness, but it seemed like Anduin desperately needed to be told that and Varian meant every word.

Anduin looked away. "I know. I just…I don't want to be king again. Not for a long time."

At that moment, Varian wanted to do nothing more than embrace his son, hold him tightly and tell him that everything would be okay, that he would always stay by his side, but he _couldn't_, and he cursed Arthas a thousand different ways in his heart. So, he simply nodded. "You won't. I promise."

Anduin gave him a wavering smile. "Okay."

Varian returned the smile with a reassuring one. "Thank you."

Varian nearly jumped when Anduin flung his arms around his neck and Anduin held onto him tightly for a second before he pulled away as the boy shivered slightly.

"When you're better, you're going to take me around Elwynn, right?" Anduin half-demanded, half-asked.

Varian smiled slowly. "Might even take you to Redridge or Westfall."

Anduin's eyes lit up. "Promise?"

"Promise."

Anduin nodded resolutely and said, "I should go back to the Cathedral. They said that we were going to start handling the Light soon!"

Varian grinned. "Go."

Anduin gave him a formal bow, although his smile belied the seriousness before he left, concern still tight in his posture, but he seemed slightly assuaged.

Varian slowly stood and brushed his fingers against the pommel of his sword before he growled quietly at the corner.

_We will hold our promise to Anduin. No matter how hard you make it, no matter what you try, we will never become your pawn._

–

Varian was very proud of how mature he was acting. It was, admittedly, a very close thing, but he was acting his station and his age.

He still didn't want to go back to Northrend.

"You know your presence is required at the Tournament, sire. The Ashen Verdict has made significant progress in breaching the Citadel—surely you want to be there to offer your support," they had told him.

The king hated it when his advisors were right, but he _had_ managed to stay in Stormwind for almost a month. Things had actually gotten _done_. Sure, many of his citizens would say that what he had done was nowhere near enough, and Varian would agree with them on that, but he had done what he could—armaments to the People's Militia and Night Watch, as many adventurers that he could convince to Redridge, a reward for someone bringing him physical proof that Van Cleef was _actually dead,_ and so forth_._ He had used whatever money he had managed to siphon from that which lined his nobles' pockets to send supplies to Westfall—not that it was enough. It was _never_ enough.

_Light-damned Horde,_ he thought with a scowl as he gathered his belongings. _I have to help the human settlements in Kalimdor, too. By the _Light_, when will I have _time? _The faster Arthas is killed, the better, and if I have to go to Northrend to show my support to get things moving more quickly, than so be it._

Varian shoved a piece of clothing into his bag a little harder than necessary. _It doesn't mean I have to like it._

During his time in Stormwind, he had received some rather…disturbing…information in regards to a certain Overlord he hated passionately; shortly after returning to Warsong Hold, the creature had gone to Nagrand. The orc had apparently given no solid reason for doing so, since his presence there wasn't necessary, as those of his clan who remained in Nagrand were either too young or too old to make it through the Dark Portal without being harmed. One of Varian's deeper spies had gone to check on the Overlord at his behest and had come back with news that confirmed a fear Varian didn't know he had:

Garrosh really _did_ have Scourge within him as well.

From how the Mag'har was described to him, Varian thought the conclusion inescapable, even though most others brushed it off as he simply wasn't feeling well. However, it seemed as if time in Nagrand was healing Garrosh, if ever so slightly.

Varian could guess that it was only a temporary respite, though, since the monster _had_ changed realms entirely, from Azeroth to Outland. Arthas' influence probably didn't extend that far, even though the wrongness would remain inside Garrosh.

_What will it be like for him, when he returns to Azeroth?_ Varian wondered, oddly disturbed. _We've at least grown accustomed to fighting off Arthas' presence—as odd as that sounds—but he might not be, which means…_

_He could fall quite easily._

_He won't. He's too stubborn._

_Why so much faith in him?_

Varian's motions hitched slightly as he packed. _Faith? No, just…_

_Just?_

_He won't_. _Because he is who he is, he won't._

"You're going back to Northrend?"

Varian turned and looked at his son, who closed the door behind him, and every line of the boy's posture spoke apprehension. His worry wasn't without foundation, as Varian was returning to the place where Arthas' influence—where the _Scourge_ influence—might increase.

Not as if he wasn't feeling its effects anyway. The frequency of the dreams had increased, but the potency of his headaches had decreased, to be replaced by a quiet hiss of whispers. He knew _whose_ voice tried to speak to him, but he had been taught discipline over both body and mind, so was able to suppress or ignore Arthas.

The most passively disturbing thing that had crept up on him was that he could sense people dying. He could feel them decay with each breath, could almost number how many heartbeats they had left. It grew worse with proximity to him, since the strange power that laid within him whispered that he could stop the decay—kill them and raise them into undeath.

The most terrifying thing was that Varian knew he could do it. It would be nearly effortless to kill someone and even less straining to raise them as fully-functional sentient undead, retaining their original appearance and abilities, but utterly bound to his will.

"Unfortunately," Varian replied to his son, sullen anger in his voice as he picked up a few items from within his dresser before he shoved them into his bag.

Varian slung his pack over his shoulder and received a rather incredulous look from his son. "That's all you're bringing?" Anduin asked.

"It's all I need," Varian replied as he picked up his sword and strapped it to his belt. "I'm sure other people will bring miscellaneous things that they think I need but really don't."

"Dad…"

"No, you're not coming to Northrend," Varian said with finality.

"But maybe I could help!"

"Anduin, right now your studies are most important," Varian said gently. "You learning the ways of the Light and becoming stronger is what would best serve Stormwind's interests—and my own."

Anduin sighed and found something _very_ interesting about the wall near him. "Still."

Varian gently brushed his fingertips through his son's hair. "Everything will be alright. I promise."

He opened his door and nudged his son out before he locked his room behind him and headed towards the harbor.

He disliked that no portals could go from Stormwind to Dalaran, since that would cut down on travel time, but figured that the Nexus War occupied enough mages that any attempt to divert their attention elsewhere would only be detrimental.

He entered the catacombs beneath the city and walked quickly towards the harbor—he had no desire to meet anyone. His master of the guard would be displeased by his brief disappearance, but Varian couldn't find it in himself to entirely care.

_The poor man,_ Varian thought with fleeting chagrin. _He's not even that old and his hair is almost entirely gray. I suppose he never expected to deal with a royal who has a life as…exciting…as mine._

He exited into the harbor and surprised a dock-worker when he came out from behind a seemingly solid wall. Varian kept on walking, reaching the Kraken quickly. He ascended the stairs just before she pulled out of port, and smiled wryly to himself.

_He's going to be rather irate, isn't he?_

"Sire."

Varian blinked, then snorted inwardly. _He knows us better than we thought._

The king turned to see General Marcus Jonathon standing not too far away, who indeed appeared annoyed, and gave him a slight nod, to which the soldier responded with a salute.

"Now, if you wouldn't mind, sire, try to alert me to what you're planning rather than having your son do so," the soldier said solemnly, although there was a hint of dryness to his voice.

Varian smiled faintly. "Very well."

"I was also told by the prince to keep a _very_ close watch on you—he didn't have to tell me that, but I will make doubly sure you don't manage to get yourself into trouble."

Varian's lips twitched in a faint smile. "See that you do."

With that, Varian turned away from the overworked soldier and found his way to the bow of the ship, and watched as the water passed swiftly beneath them.

_Back to Northrend._

–

Varian was ready to return to Stormwind and the look-out had just sighted Valiance Keep on the horizon.

It alarmed him, how rapidly his health started to go downhill once he had left Stormwind Harbor.

The headaches were worse than before, and he could no longer pass them off for his normal stress headaches, since those had never been bad enough that he couldn't walk for fear of falling.

Anymore the dreams were so vivid that he had to take a moment upon waking to convince himself that it hadn't been real. He had grown to loathe the prospect of sleep, but knew well enough that a body that was sleep-deprived wasn't at its peak performance, and he felt that he'd need to be in the best shape possible to survive Icecrown.

The cold had become worse, too, since he could feel it again. It bit into him, a bone-deep chill that was beyond shivering, and he found himself dreaming of warmth—when he wasn't killing his own men, of course.

The worst thing, however, was that _he_ was there, whispering to him in his sleeping and his waking. Varian could never make out words, so simply did his best to ignore the prick and continue his daily life, but it was getting progressively harder to block him out, regardless of the training he had received.

He knew people noticed how his health (and temper) decayed, but aside from a few inquiries as to how he felt, they did nothing, since he was insistent that he didn't need a healer, and no-one would make him do what he didn't want to—they technically couldn't, with him being their king.

Standing on the deck helped a little bit—there was constant motion around him, and the sea seemed to dampen the bastard's influence slightly.

A fine spray misted across his face as a wave splashed against the Kraken, and his mind briefly replayed for him a snippet of dream where it hadn't been water that had brushed across his face. Varian shuddered and his hands tightened on the railing of the ship. He covertly took a deep breath and glared in the general direction of Icecrown. _You will never win, Arthas. No matter how hard you try, no matter what you do, you will _never win.

He had promised Anduin that he would be fine, and, come what may, he would. He was the _King of Stormwind_—no-one governed _him_.

A sailor passed him on the ship's deck, and the Scourge within him told him that the woman had 14 more years to live before she died of a creeping disease that was just starting to manifest within her. Why not spare her the suffering and kill her now? Surely undeath was better than the agony she would have to endure.

He scowled at the dark water and choked down a snarl. People were already watching him carefully, he didn't need them taking action.

When Varian stepped reluctantly off the ship, he found that a mage waited for him—she wasn't the usual Quel'dorei, but the woman seemed nice enough, a nameless, faceless peon of the Kirin Tor. There was something in her manner, though, something slightly…_off_. It made Varian wary, but it seemed as if he was the only one who suspected anything, and he didn't want to add paranoia to the list of things that troubled him. Anyway, from how a mage he had been traveling with greeted her, it seemed like she was trustworthy.

"My lord," she greeted him, eyes cast downward in what Varian chose to interpret as respect.

"You'll be taking me to Icecrown?"

The small, fleeting smile that crossed her face made him start to back away, but she had taken a hold of one of his hands and the familiar surge of arcane energy of a teleportation spell pressed against him.

Once the brief disorientation he experienced after being subjected to such a spell passed, he found himself looking at a dark, obsidian room rather than the warm gold-and-purple scheme of Dalaran.

He had enough time to think _This can't be good, _before the diseased, dark energy that had sat patiently at his core rose up within him. It spread through his body, and he felt it leech into his very blood, change him, taint him. The constant cold he had endured vanished as it seeped into him, bound itself beneath his skin. He felt his heartbeat slow, the breath in his lungs still, but he clung desperately to life, unwilling to give himself up to undeath.

All around him he felt the Scourge press against his consciousness, intrigued by the presence that was and was not their master's. Varian could tell which were mages, ghouls, lesser-undead vyr'kul, geists, abominations, bone guards, flesh giants…and he _knew_ that they would listen to him as surely as they listened to Arthas. It was terrifying, how complete his control over the hundreds—_thousands_—of undead within a five-mile radius was.

In that moment of shock, the Lich King's will slammed against his own, and Varian shuddered as a soft cry passed his lips. The monster obviously had experience controlling stubborn mortal minds, and Varian had to fight desperately to retain his own will. The creeping influence was inexorable, the Lich King's will slowly overtaking his own.

_Can't,_ he thought desperately. _Anduin!_

The reminder of his son made his whole body shake and he gritted his teeth as he pushed back viciously against the mental invasion. He would never make his son live with the knowledge that his father had fallen prey to the Lich King, had become _Scourge._

Arthas obviously hadn't expected such vehement resistance and faltered enough that Varian was able to secure his mind for his own. It wasn't going to be easy, but he'd be damned if he ever became Arthas' willing slave. He was the King of Stormwind! He wouldn't fall to the whiny, weak, selfish little _brat_ that had somehow managed to claim far too much power for him to handle.

_Never_, he snarled at the presence he could still feel as it picked at the edges of his consciousness, and was viciously pleased when it slunk away, obviously sulking.

_A child then and a child now, Arthas. Your pride has always been your weakness._

It was only when he opened his eyes that he realized that he had closed them in his mental battle. Cult of the Damned members stood a respectful distance away from him, and watched in expectant awe.

_They expect me to have lost,_ Varian thought grimly. He saw movement to his right, tensed, and turned slightly.

He was both surprised and not to see Garrosh a few paces away, and the orc shook his head as if clearing out something from his eyes—from his _mind_, most likely.

_See? Knew he wouldn't fall._

The orc seemed to sense Varian's gaze, as he looked over at the king and scowled.

A heavy silence hung between them, the Cult members momentarily forgotten.

Varian felt there was something…odd…about the Mag'har's appearance, but he couldn't put his finger on it. To him, the orc wore his usual armor and sported his same ugly features, but there was a subtle glow to his eyes, a dark, sick red that made him uneasy.

_What now?_ Varian wondered and turned back to the cult members.

"Commander—" one of them began and took a step towards Varian.

The king snarled viciously, and the sound made the cultists retreat slightly. The undead nearby advanced on the cultists, Varian's abject hatred for the thing that their machinations had woken in him obviously imparted onto them.

Varian balked at the immediate response of the Scourge to his intent and willed them back and away. It was terrifyingly easy to make them submit, but he would use the odd ability that had been forced on him as little as possible—its exercise probably left some part of him open to Arthas' influence, and he wanted to avoid that at all costs.

"Do not presume me as weak as you," Varian snarled. "I am my own—" his voice hitched as he had to shove the odd tickle of Arthas' mind against his own away "—I will _never_ bow to that piece of slime that sulks up in the Citadel, too afraid to face his fate."

**Kill them.**

_No!_ Varian replied and shoved Arthas away.

"_Leave_," Varian commanded vehemently.

"We would gladly die by your—"

"By the spirits, scum, _go away_."

Varian wasn't surprised that Garrosh added his command, and it appeared that, while an angry human—especially Varian—could strike fear into the cultists' hearts, an enraged orc could drive them away.

Varian looked over at Garrosh and gave him an unhappy smile as the cultists bolted.

Garrosh glowered at the cultists before he growled, "And I can't even blame you for this."

Varian coughed, oddly amused.

A grim silence fell between them, and an unspoken 'What now?' hung in the air.

Eventually, Varian simply turned away and started to walk in the direction he felt the most undead—he assumed that would _probably_ be the exit.

"Where are you going?"

Varian didn't bother to respond. He didn't have to answer the orc, and he had a vague plan—reach the Tournament grounds. It was an area saturated with the Light and Light-wielders, so he figured that might help drive back the Scourge within him to something manageable, or perhaps get rid of it altogether.

He walked briskly down the obsidian hallway, then abruptly stopped as he caught a reflection of _something_ in a mirror-like panel, and his hand went instinctively to his sword.

The figure's skin was a pale gray, the cold color of a corpse, and the scars that slashed across his face seemed to be savagely dug into his skin. The hair that framed his face lacked all luster, a dark black that only highlighted the gross wrongness of his features.

The armor he wore bore the dark, forbidding colors of the Scourge, and a mockery of Alliance regalia was carved into the deep black plate—the proud lion of Stormwind entwined with the undead symbology of the Lich King.

The sword at his side was a tainted version of something that at one time might have been glorious, a crystal that sat near its hilt a brightly-glowing green, the blade itself a dark black.

What was most horrifying however, were his eyes. The glow that misted from them wasn't the fel green of the Sin'dorei, the blazing red of a tainted orc, nor the icy blue of a Death Knight—it was a pale, sickly green, something that spoke of encroaching disease, of a slow demise from infection.

It took him a long second to register that he was looking _at himself._ The image made his stomach churn and he recoiled from the surface.

When he looked at himself, he saw none of it. To him, his armor, his sword, everything he could see was the same—nothing had changed.

_An illusion, then? Is _that_ who people will see when they look at us?_ He thought, horrified.

From the startled orcish cry he heard, he assumed the same sort of transformation was true for the Mag'har.

_Light…Light, this can't be._

Fierce anger curled within him and a snarl passed his lips. _We don't care how hard you try to make this, Arthas. We will _never_ be yours. We will never give up._

Varian began to walk down the hallway again when he heard an odd, strangled sound from behind him.

He turned and looked over his shoulder to see the orc he hated shuddering and gripping at his head, the slightest misting of blue coming out from beneath his closed eyes.

Varian wasn't a genius, but something in him _knew_ that the orc fought for his volition, for his _sanity_.

Varian found that he had taken two steps towards the orc before he even registered that he had moved, and stopped himself with a scowl. So what if the orc fell? He would just kill him twice (once to end his mortal life and the other to end his undead one).

_But.._.

It felt _wrong_, it felt like _cheating_, and, oddly, it felt like he would have let Arthas _win_, at least to an extent, and for as long as lived—or half-lived, or whatever—he would never let Arthas win something that he could prevent.

_But, how…? _He wondered.

Varian worked on instinct, since it had yet to fail him in dire situations.

He closed the gap between he and Garrosh quickly, reached out, and grasped the orc's forearm.

The contact made the orc shudder, and the blue dimmed from beneath his closed eyes, although it was obvious he still fought.

Varian was astonished at how _warm_ the orc felt. He could feel the heat through his armor, but it wasn't the same kind of hot that touching anyone else felt—it was somehow different, and he trailed his fingers up the orc's arm to spread out along his shoulder, unable to stop himself, delighting in the sensation.

The blue mist vanished altogether and Varian forced himself to release his grasp, even though the warmth beneath his fingers was a welcome relief from the cold within him.

He took two steps back, and watched the Mag'har carefully, alert for any signs that Arthas was trying again.

A surprisingly large part of Varian was clamoring that the single touch hadn't been enough, but he shoved it away, even though the tantalizing warmth lingered and he hungered for the brief suppression of the eternal chill he endured.

He could tell when the orc reasserted control over his mind and body, and nodded slightly.

_Good._

Strangely, he felt rooted to the spot, as if he needed to confirm absolutely that the male was free of Arthas' control.

When their eyes met and Varian saw only the disgusting amber, a part of him that had been torqued up unwound.

There was a thick silence between them before Varian surprised even himself by saying, "Together."

"What?" Garrosh replied, wary and confused.

"We should travel together," Varian continued, astonished by his offer. "You're the only one who has even a hope of defeating me if Arthas gains control—and I'm pretty sure you don't want to be his pawn either."

Garrosh scowled at nothing in particular, then asked cautiously, "Why didn't you kill me?"

Varian's fingers played with the pommel of his sword. "Because it would have meant that he had won."

After a long, tense, considering silence, the Mag'har growled unhappily, "Together."

Most of Varian was displeased about having to work with Garrosh, but a small part was utterly gleeful at the forced companionship—it increased the chances of his getting his hands on Garrosh, afterall.

But he was mostly unhappy.

"I'm headed to the Tournament grounds," Varian stated before he turned again, headed towards where he felt massive amounts of undead.

"Why are you going that way?"

Varian's steps stopped, and he grimaced.

"The Conflagration is teeming with undead, more than almost anywhere else."

"Isn't that a _bad_ thing?" the orc drawled as he came up beside Varian.

"There's something inside you, isn't there?" Varian half-asked. "Something _Scourge_, a power that makes you sick."

Garrosh snarled, which indicated that the statement was true.

"We have little to fear from the undead," Varian said flatly before he started to walk again.

The Mag'har fell into step beside him, but they were both as far away from each other as possible—which was fairly substantial, as the hallways were rather spacious.

Just because they had to work together didn't mean they had to like it.

The closer Varian got to the exit, the more uneasy he became. He could _feel_ the undead pressing against him, could catch fleeting thoughts—if they could be called thoughts—impressions, and emotions. Most of the Scourge had no volition to speak of, and patiently waited for the command of their newest master.

It mad Varian sick, such blind obedience.

"Worm?"

Varian looked over at Garrosh and scowled at the curiosity in the male's voice. "What?" he snapped.

"Nothing," the creature answered vaguely, and Varian's expression darkened further.

"Insolent pig," Varian snarled under his breath.

Garrosh sneered, apparently not bothering to dignify the insult with a response.

An odd sort of familiar enmity was established between them that was comforting, and silence fell as they walked.

They pushed open a door to find themselves in the Cathedral of Darkness.

The cultists nearby gave them wary, terrified bows before hurrying away, which made Varian frown.

_Do they see what we saw in the reflection? Do we appear that way to them? _he wondered as his hand rested on his sword.

Still, the cultists weren't attacking them, and Varian had more pressing matters to attend to than taking care of fanatics who mercenaries and adventurers seemed more than happy to massacre. So, he walked on, a part of him shamefully pleased by the trembling deference.

Varian stepped onto the stairs that lead out into Icecrown and immediately felt thousands of minds press against his. It was briefly disorienting, and he reached out blindly for support—only to have his arm gripped firmly, which kept him from falling on his face.

Garrosh seemed as surprised as he.

Varian stared in momentary confusion at the contact before he wrenched his arm away with a small snarl. He looked in the direction of the Argent Crusade's forward camp. "They have horses," Varian stated and gestured towards the banners that were just barely visible in an attempt to distract himself from the blissful warmth that lingered.

Garrosh grunted slightly in grudging acknowledgement.

While horses would be less than ideal on the rocky, uneven terrain of Icecrown, it would nonetheless be the fastest way to travel—unless they managed to obtain flying mounts, which seemed unlikely.

He watched Garrosh head towards the camp and frowned.

_Wait. We don't look like who we think we do. If the cultists reacted with deference to us, chances are that the Crusaders will attack us, believing us Scourge._

Varian paused for a moment longer, shrugged, then moved to catch up with Garrosh. The Crusaders' reactions would tell him unequivocally if he looked like the Scourge he had seen or if he appeared how he perceived himself.

The answer was almost immediate.

The moment one of the lookouts caught sight of them and deduced that they intended to enter the camp, a cry of warning went up and the crusaders moved to attack.

Varian scowled as Garrosh snarled.

Varian dodged as one of the crusaders charged at him and Garrosh moved in the opposite direction. Varian unsheathed his sword and brought it up quickly when the crusader came around again and cut through the lance effortlessly. He moved out of the way of thrashing hooves as he fought down the power within him that _begged_ to be used. He barely managed to sidestep the crusader throwing the remains of the lance at him, and the shattered weapon skittered across the dark, icy rock. He yelled out a wordless cry of protest when the crusader began to retreat, but skeletal hands crawled out of the ground and grabbed at the horse's legs, which slowed it even as the crusader frantically swiped at the bones with his sword. Varian ran quickly over and jumped when a shock of electricity flew in front of him and slithered over both horse and rider, which made the horse buck in terror and unseat the crusader. The man was lucky enough to not get trampled as three boneguard scout gargoyles hemmed the horse in and obviously guided the beast to Varian.

_We are saying nothing,_ he thought with horror. _We are _doing _nothing. Is it intent alone that they are reading?_

Varian numbly grabbed at the horse's reins when it was close enough and stared when an unholy energy ran from his point of contact along the leather and then onto the horse itself, and watched in gross fascination as the horse _changed_.

The leather frayed and tattered as the livery that covered the horse changed from the white, blue, and gold of the Crusade to the dark blue, black, and silver of the Scourge. The healthy white of the charger's coat changed to a sickly gray before skin and muscles sloughed off of it and left patches of skeleton visible beneath the livery. Its eyes lit with a pale, sickly green glow that he knew he must have, and the horse's hooves glowed that same color as they left tiny patches of desecration that slowly grew in radius the longer it stood in one place.

Varian was sickened by the transformation, but he would do what he needed to in order to free himself of Arthas. He heaved himself onto the steed's back and picked up the reins as he looked around for Garrosh.

Varian saw that Garrosh fought off two Crusaders, and his eyebrows slowly rose when he noticed that, regardless of where they struck the orc, the wound healed the instant Garrosh landed a hit on one of them.

His eyes narrowed but he shook off the odd feeling. Surely the men were dying because Garrosh was hurting them—there was no way that the orc could somehow be draining the life from them.

All it took was his intent and moving towards the orc that sent nearby gargoyles to the Mag'har, the Scourge raining necromantic-electricity upon the Crusaders. While the Crusaders were obviously used to dealing with one or two at a time, a half-dozen or so was much even for them.

It gave Garrosh enough time to upset a crusader from his steed and lead the horse away.

Varian found the hulking orc on the back of a human horse to be hilarious, and didn't bother to curb his laughter. The entire situation was ridiculous, but the image Garrosh presented even more so. Varian turned towards the gate leading away from the Citadel and started his horse off at a decent clip.

He had neglected to account for the occasional adventurer that helped the Crusade, and barely dodged an attack from behind him.

_Who needs honor when fighting Scourge?_ He thought bitterly as he wheeled his horse to face his attacker.

As the Kaldorei moved to attack again, the mortal was broadsided by Garrosh, and both horse and rider were sent down.

Varian could hear the snap of bone from where he was and simply scowled. _Stupid orc. He _would_ try to kill an Alliance member._

But, said Alliance member had attempted to kill Varian, so he assumed he should be grateful. Not that he was. He could have taken the rider on by himself.

As it was, the situation had been handled and he pressed on.

Corp'rethar loomed above him and the orc that was a small distance away. They were far enough apart that they would be able to tell if something was going wrong, but not close enough to have to subject themselves to the other's company.

Varian felt the attention of _every_ undead in the Conflagration turn to him as he entered the ranks, the empty gazes watching, waiting, weighing.

Varian snarled physically and mentally at the presences that pushed against his own, and the Scourge beings pulled back, seeming pleased.

A ghoul was brave enough to come over to him and eye him with the curiosity of a dumb bird, which made Varian frown from his perch on the stolen horse.

"Go away," he told it, mildly annoyed as he continued onward.

The ghoul kept pace with him and gave him a vacant but content look, which made Varian scowl. "Go away," he repeated more emphatically.

The tone of his voice made the ghoul seem to deflate and it made a plaintive, pitiful sound.

Garrosh snickered.

Varian glared at the orc that had come up beside him (it appeared that Bone Guards that towered stories above him was unnerving even for the Mag'har) and was about to snap a rather scathing reply, but solidity suddenly seemed to fall away from beneath him. Everything was ephemeral, without substance. It was hard to think, hard to breathe. He felt something—some_one_—bear down on him, seek to suppress who he thought himself as. It took him a moment, but he recognized the will he was facing—they had butted heads on a number of occasions. This, too, was merely a matter of seeing who was the more stubborn between them.

Arthas had the advantage of experience and extra power, but Varian refused to yield. It was getting harder as time passed, though, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could—

Varian gasped at the sudden heat that pressed against him, and the intensity of the sensation cleared his mind and returned him to a cold, dark, dismal reality.

It took a moment to register that he was leaning against something and was still sitting on his horse. Whatever he was half pressed against was blissfully warm after he'd been so cold for so long, and he would have liked to stay there, but recognition of the armor he leaned against made him push away violently and glare at Garrosh.

"You're welcome," the Mag'har drawled.

"You didn't have to help me," Varian snapped once he was upright and steady in the saddle.

Garrosh growled quietly. "Ungrateful human. I should have let you fall and break your neck, and I would have made sure everyone knew what a _glorious_ death you had died."

Varian bristled. "Perhaps I _should_ have let Arthas claim you. Then I would have had a reason to rid this world of your taint."

Every undead was now focused on Garrosh, and the orc was forced to dodge a Frostbolt that sent him dangerously close to a pack of lesser undead had advanced on him.

Varian debated letting Garrosh take a few hits, but decided that the male was of more use alive—well, unharmed—and he _had_ helped return him from Arthas' hold, so he reluctantly insisted that the undead not tear Garrosh to bits, that it was _his_ job to do that, which brought them to heel and made them back off, although all Scourge attention was still on Garrosh.

Varian clucked to his mount and he took off at a brisk pace, leaving the orc to do what he would. As he oriented himself towards the Tournament grounds he dejectedly wished that the worst complication in his life was the Defias instead of the Scourge…and Garrosh.


	7. Towards the Tournament

**Author**: Hi guys. So, that **M** rating tagged to this fic?

Pay attention to it.

**_WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS EXPLICIT CONTENT. AS IN SEX. BETWEEN TWO GUYS. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE DON'T READ THIS IF YOU'RE OFFENDED BY SUCH._** Oh, there's also swearing and violence and both Varian and Garrosh's tempers.

**Disclaimer**: If I owned WoW, would I be writing fanfiction?

**Chapter 7**

As they moved as swiftly as possible across the broken terrain, Varian had to hold on tightly to the reins of his undead steed, the press of Scourge against his mind nearly overwhelming. It was disorienting, having hundreds, _thousands_, of consciousnesses looking to him for guidance, and the contact was disgustingly intimate. He was slowly learning how to control the distasteful connection, the ghoul immediately at his side aiding in that, as the closer the Scourge was, the harder it was to keep it out of his head.

However, even in his half-awareness, he noticed that Garrosh lagged behind more and more. Eventually, he stopped, observed, and noticed, to his distinct alarm, that the horse the Mag'har was riding was _dying_. It took only a moment longer for his odd sense to pick up that the mount's life was draining _into_ Garrosh. He could almost feel the beast's heart laboring for each beat, clawing to stay alive with mindless ferocity. He stared, captivated for a moment, before he shook himself out of his morbid fascination.

_So we weren't imagining things when he was fighting the crusaders._

As he trotted back to the orc, his power whispered to him that he could ease the horse's pain—just kill it and raise it.

"Your fat body too much for the poor beast to handle?" Varian drawled as he came up beside Garrosh, who gave him a dirty look.

"It simply demonstrates again how humans are inferior," Garrosh replied, although the odd glow to his eyes had grown darker and there was a rough edge to his voice. _That_ told Varian that the Mag'har knew what was happening but had no way to stop it.

"You're slowing us down," Varian stated, as his hands tightened on the reins of his steed. Being so close to something that was quickly dying made the power within him _beg_ to be used. Put the horse out of its misery!

He had moved before he could stop himself and grabbed the reins out of Garrosh's hands.

Garrosh was obviously horrified by the transformation of the horse beneath him, and Varian wasn't surprised to see that the unholy power that had escaped him didn't affect Garrosh. He couldn't feel the orc dying, afterall.

Which was…odd. A relief, in a way, but also disconcerting.

"Come on. Now that your horse isn't dying, we can move faster," Varian said brusquely and let the reins go. He turned his horse sharply around again to face the direction of the tournament grounds and shoved down his anger at his weakness. The unholy power that had flowed out of him still sung close to his skin and begged to be used again—so many dead lay beneath the glacier, surely he could raise a few to help him in his travels? It might make things easier.

Resisting the insidious desire was harder than it had any right to be

"And you believe _me_ to be the monster," he heard Garrosh murmur.

Varian stopped and looked at Garrosh as shock rippled through him. "Do you think I want this? This..._disease?_" Varian snarled. "_I'm_ not the one who leeches away life from the living."

Garrosh responded to the insult with a snarl of his own, although there was shame in his posture. "If it hadn't been for the delinquent _weakness_ of your _friend_ sitting on the Frozen Throne, none of this would be happening!"

Varian bristled. "Arthas is as much my friend as the ghoul at my side—as much as Monoroth was a friend to your father," he spat.

He was aware that a ring of undead had formed around them, and that only his marginal self-control was keeping the Scourge at bay.

Garrosh was obviously cognizant of their situation as well, since he growled. "Seems like you've gained yourself a new kind of people to control."

Astonishment and anger shivered through Varian. "You _dare_ think that I control—I _control_—my people? I guide them, I rule them, but I don't controlthem," Varian snapped and the circle tightened as Varian's posture stiffened in indignation. "My people are free—free even to hate me, should they so choose. This_,_" he said and gestured around them, "is hateful."

Those who surrounded him were the most typical Scourge—mindless creatures, ghouls, vyr'kul, _things_ that had no consciousness and looked outside themselves for direction. They were heartless, cold, disgusting creatures that made his skin crawl. There was nothing in them that signified any kind of free will. They belonged to Arthas—and to _him_—entirely.

"Who are you?"

Varian's sword was immediately drawn and only through surprisingly quick reflexes did the Scourge death knight manage to dance his horse out of the way of Varian's sword-stroke.

To the king's distant surprise, Garrosh had moved behind the death knight, caging him between him between the two of them.

There must have been something in the illusion that cloaked them that was recognizable, as the death knight tossed down his sword immediately. "Do what you will—my sword and my strength are yours to command."

Varian frowned and the power within him whispered that he could find out what was behind the death knight's puzzling behavior—it would be child's play to invade his mind and rip out the answers he desired.

Garrosh ended the death knight's second life before Varian could ask any questions of the Scourge who had seen remarkably well-spoken.

_Scourge is Scourge—and Scourge is our enemy. He was right to kill it._

Varian turned away from the remnants of the death knight and moved on.

The undead churned around he and Garrosh, and while the Mag'har obviously disdained them and they feared him, any number followed Varian and paid him homage, which unsettled the man. There was a mindless adoration ingrained in them, something that recognized the power he had over them, and they _exalted_ him for it. They _craved_ the control, hung in breathless anticipation for his command.

It was sickening.

As they moved farther away from Corp'rethar, the manner of undead changed. The Scourge became comprised fallen heroes—those who had given their lives in the service of Azeroth. Garrosh's accusation still rang in his head, but the insult introduced an intriguing idea; if Varian could control the undead, did that mean he could release them?

_One way to find out,_ he thought.

Using his anger at Arthas as fuel, he pulled on the power that sat temptingly close to his skin, and it rose gleefully, eagerly to his call. His consciousness abruptly expanded around him, and he could see where the weaknesses in the binding spells that kept the spirits enthralled were. Sheer will dictated the use of the unholy energy and the unwanted power slammed against the other form of Scourge magic, which shattered the spells.

Varian could feel the difference immediately—the heroes that brushed against his senses felt _cleaner_ than the ghoul and—oh Light, he had picked up a vyr'kul—beside him.

The release had changed the landscape, as all the black chains that had circled and controlled the spirits lay in pieces around them.

All of their attention was on Varian.

"Go away," he said wearily as he fought against the presence that clawed at the edges of his mind, who was taking advantage of multiple uses of the hateful power and the exhaustion that resulted from its use. The power was still swirling close to the surface of his skin, clamoring to be used again—and the worst part was that Varian found himself _wanting_ to. It had felt…

Most of the spirits dissolved into nothingness, moving on to true death, but two remained—an undead elf and the ghost of a human.

'What has happened to you, my Lord?' the human asked, horrified.

"Arthas," Varian snapped. _Seems like they can see who we truly are._

'He does have the bad habit of fucking with people, doesn't he?' the elf said dryly. 'Who are you?' she asked and gave Garrosh a once-over.

The orc bared his teeth in a sneer. "Garrosh Hellscream," he said, the derision in his voice saying that he thought the elf to be inferior for not recognizing him.

She frowned severely.

'Idallia,' the human scolded, and Varian could have sworn that the elf did an eye-roll.

"We're trying to get to the Tournament grounds," Varian said, which turned attention back to him.

'_You_ are traveling with an orc?' the elf said, incredulously amused.

'He does what he must,' the human answered for Varian. He turned back to face his king, 'We can escort you across the glacier.'

'Not like they need your help, Dave.'

The human glared at the elf and Varian couldn't help the small smile that pulled at his lips. "Thank you," he said solemnly and turned to begin his travel again.

The human moved to walk a little ways in front of them while the elf fell back behind them, the two spirits forming a strange honor guard along with the ghoul and newly-acquired vyr'kul that lumbered along beside them. He discovered that the closer the spirits were, the less he felt the undead—it was as if their presence was acting as a damper and kept the omnipresent sense under control. He wasn't surprised to find that they could keep up with the two of them even as they pushed their now-undead steeds to what would have been the limit of mortal horses' tolerance.

Varian's eyes briefly darted over to his unwanted companion and frowned slightly.

Garrosh seemed oddly tired, the glow of his eyes faded slightly and…a strange mix of pain and hunger in his hunched posture.

'I pity your friend there,' the elf said as she came up beside him, an arrow preemptively notched on her bow.

Varian scowled. "He isn't my friend," he growled. Curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "Why?"

Idallia smiled bitterly. 'He's addicted to energy—life energy, in his case. You noticed it, how he seems weaker; he _is_, because he's surrounded by the unliving.'

Varian's eyebrows snapped up. "Addicted?"

The elf nodded. 'One addict can recognize another,' she said, self-hatred in her voice. 'I'd suggest finding some living he can leech off of, if you don't want him to fall to the Lich King.'

Varian frowned. "Why don't I feel it?"

The elf laughed. 'Because _you_, my Lord, are more like the creatures you command than human anymore. Pray you find a way to undo this soon, lest it becomes irreversible.'

The elf left his side, and an odd numbness settled over Varian.

"Undead?" he whispered to himself before a familiar anger rose to replace the numbness. _Never_.

He turned his focus to his body and let his horse have her head. He was alarmed at how infrequently he needed to breathe, and when he briefly took off his glove to press his fingers against his pulse-point, he could barely detect his heartbeat.

_Oh, Light._ He shook his head and glared fiercely in the direction of the Citadel that loomed over everything as he re-secured his glove. _I hate you, Arthas._

Varian felt two odd spots of _nothing_ register on his senses and saw Garrosh make a sharp turn, only to force himself back on his original trajectory. Looking over to where Garrosh had been briefly traveling, Varian saw two adventurers fighting to keep the spirits of the fallen from becoming enthralled to the Lich King. The hunger in the Mag'har's posture was obvious and he kept on slipping ever nearer to the pair.

Thankfully, the two adventurers summoned their mounts and took off into the sky to a strangled cry of protest from Garrosh before he could reach them. The orc immediately looked away, his posture tense with shame for his weakness.

Varian felt a strange kind of empathy and moved close to him. They were each living a nightmare—just different flavors.

_He was probably as aware of every heartbeat of those around him as we were—although the desire that underlay that knowledge was probably very different._

"I don't need your pity," the orc growled at him as Varian came up beside him.

"You don't have it," Varian replied. "Come on. The sooner we get to the tournament grounds, the sooner I can rid myself of you."

Garrosh scowled and shook his head, but said nothing, and Varian chose to ignore how the tension in the orc's posture had lessened slightly.

The tension and hunger wound right back into Garrosh's posture the moment they came across a Scourge standard-bearer. The creatures were still at least partly alive, and Varian felt as strong a desire to end them and raise them in full undeath as Garrosh appeared to crave the life that still ran through them.

A horrifying thought dawned on him as he placed himself between Garrosh and another of the half-living Scourge.

_Oh Light. It works out _perfectly. _Should Arthas ever gain control of us and that creature…Garrosh kills whomever he fights…and then we raise them into undead servitude._

The realization was sickening, and it made him want to see Arthas ended even more.

The laughter that tickled the edges of his mind didn't help convince him otherwise.

'Sire.'

Varian looked down and over to the human warrior who kept pace beside him as the elf took point, sticking strangely close to Garrosh, who obviously disdained her presence.

"Yes?" Varian replied.

'How is the offensive progressing? Is the Ashen Verdict any closer to defeating the Lich King?'

Varian smiled faintly. _He must not have gotten any news of the progress, being bound to the Scourge's will._ "Things are going as well as possible, at least from the last report I received. I was going to speak directly with Tirion and the death knight commander when…" Varian snarled softly. "When a mage from the Cult of the Damned intercepted my progress and brought me to the Cathedral."

'Where you met the orc.'

"Where I ran into Garrosh, yes."

'If you don't mind my asking, why are you traveling with an _orc_?'

Varian sighed and he watched Garrosh briefly struggle with himself before he conquered his desire and turned away from a nearby part-mortal. "Because there was no other choice."

The warrior wisely didn't press and instead said, 'We are not far from the Bombardment.'

Varian grimaced. "More Scourge."

'I don't think you can escape that here,' the warrior said with wry sympathy in his voice. 'You are strong, my Lord. I believe you will make it through.'

Varian smiled faintly. "Thank you."

Varian looked away and a shiver ran through his body as he _felt_ a nearby mortal die—not from Garrosh, from one of the Scourge being stronger than whomever they had been fighting.

The power within him whispered that death was a boring place, full of nothing—raising someone into undeath would give them a second chance, an ability to experience everything that they had never had the chance to—surely using it for something that magnanimous couldn't be a bad thing?

Varian gripped his forehead and fought down the power that ran through him. It was getting harder to ignore the temptation—it spoke with greater strength every passing second.

Varian jumped slightly when it was abruptly quieted and looked over to the orc who was now casually riding next to him, as if it had been pure accident that he had ended up at Varian's side.

Their eyes caught for the briefest of moments, and Varian growled quietly while Garrosh sneered at him.

The glacier seemed to stretch on for forever, the landscape unchanging except for the fluctuation in the numbers and types of Scourge. Varian would never admit it to anyone save himself, but if Garrosh hadn't been there, he was sure that he would have gone mad.

The king wasn't looking forward to crossing the Bombardment, for, while it did mean that they were getting closer to the Tournament ground, the number of Scourge there would be unbearable.

_Too bad there's no way _around_ it,_ Varian thought sullenly as they stood in the ramp passing through Aldu'athar, the two fallen heroes standing silently next to them as the ghoul and vyr'kul looked about for any threats to their master.

'Good luck, my lords,' Dave said solemnly. 'We are bound to the place that we died, so we can't go any farther. Light be with you.'

'What he said,' Idallia chipped in.

The two of them faded into true death, and Varian immediately felt the undead pressed against his mind again, which made him wince.

On the heights of Adul'athar above them, Varian could feel pockets of _nothings_—living beings. They were annoying, yawning emptinesses that made Varian scowl. He was ready to press on when Garrosh's voice stopped him.

"Worm."  
"What?" Varian asked and looked over to the orc.

Garrosh appeared torn between a number of different emotions, the primary of which was an aching _hunger_ that made Varian distinctly uneasy, but beneath it was shame, anger and…exhaustion.

"How much farther?"

Varian paused, then shrugged. "I don't know. I've never gone there on foot."

Garrosh growled quietly, but there was an odd undercurrent in the sound.

Varian paused and looked at the orc a little more closely.

Beneath all the bravado, there was a desperation, a _need_ to keep going, but the knowledge that if he did, the tiredness he felt may work against him.

"We should give the horses some time to rest—they've been moving quickly for a very long time. I saw a crevice over there that looked safe enough."

Varian wanted to get to the tournament grounds as soon as possible, but an exhausted Garrosh would be useless to him, and the physical weakness might make it easier for Arthas to gain control of the creature.

Varian moved in the direction of the crevice and was unsurprised to hear Garrosh follow him, regardless of Varian's flimsy reason.

The crevice was deep enough to hide both them and their horses from any wandering undead—or hostile living, as the case may be. He dismounted before he took the reins of Garrosh's temporary steed in hand, the orc having nearly tumbled off the horse. The king was astonished at how quickly Garrosh managed to make a small fire out of a set of things he had on his person before the he passed out, curled tightly around the warmth of the fire, cloak held tightly against him.

Varian cajoled the horses into the relative safety and tied them together before he stood and observed Garrosh.

Nothing about the orc changed in his sleep—he still looked as ugly and distasteful as when awake. Although it was…odd…that Garrosh would willingly leave himself vulnerable to Varian.

Varian ran a hand along the bony face of his steed before he snorted and shook his head. He sat down a respectable distance away, and turned his attention to keeping careful track of the undead nearby.

He reflected, again, that it was an odd relief that Garrosh simply didn't register on his new sense. The mortals that they came across had felt like spots of emptiness, and the undead burned like tiny flames, but Garrosh just…wasn't there. He watched the male for a moment, and his eyebrows slowly rose. He couldn't see the orc decaying, he couldn't pinpoint how much longer he had to live, there was no subtle desire to raise Garrosh into undeath to stop the inexorable march towards death. He was simply…there.

Varian looked away and sighed quietly.

After a few minutes, he snarled unhappily at himself. Garrosh's presence distracted him as much as the undead pressing against his senses did. He had forgotten how _annoying_ the strange thing living within him was, and had been hoping that somehow being partly-undead would suppress it.

Instead, he could recall quite clearly how nice it had felt to have Garrosh propping him up, how the heat from him had been different from the searing agony of the living. A part of him wanted to creep closer to the orc and touch him, seek to absorb the warmth that radiated from Garrosh, but the rest of him sneered at the weakness.

But it was _so_ tempting. Garrosh need not ever know. Just the smallest touch, the tiniest taste of the warmth he had been deprived of—

_No,_ he thought heatedly and shoved the thought aside. _We're an honorable person—we would never take advantage of someone who is defenseless—even an orc._ Varian shook his head slowly. _Which is why he trusts us enough to rest. Honor prevents us from killing him in his sleep—we're a _warrior, _not a rogue._

He looked away from Garrosh to see the ghoul regarding him contentedly before it turned away and took up a look-out position as the vry'kul prowled the length of the crevice, which made Varian inexplicably amused.

_Given any other circumstance, we wouldn't think twice about killing these things. Now, they are a first line of defense. Light, we're never telling Anduin about this._

The reminder of Anduin made him grimace, then glare at the Citadel. _We hope that when someone finally kills you, it will be the longest, more tortuous death anyone can imagine._

Varian heard Garrosh mutter something in his sleep and looked over.

He felt oddly guilty that the male was shivering. _He's probably used to Nagrand, used to life being all around him,_ he thought and toyed with the clasp of his cloak. When he finally realized what he was contemplating, he stared at nothing in surprise.

_Hold on._

_We want to make sure he lives._

_We're _protecting _Garrosh Hellscream._

_We want to _help_ him._

…_By the Light, have we lost our mind?_

Varian considered the orc for a moment longer before he scowled. He grumbled meaninglessly in discontent as he unclasped his cloak and gathered it in his hands. He stood slowly, paused and took a quick catalog of where all the undead were. He then walked over to Garrosh, knelt beside him, and carefully placed his cloak on the orc. He hoped to not wake him so as to delay the awkward questions for as long as possible.

It seemed he needn't have worried from how Garrosh didn't even twitch, and actually pulled the cloak tightly to him.

Varian laughed quietly, the sound full of disbelief.

_Garrosh is an enemy of the Alliance._

_Garrosh is _our_ enemy._

_Then why…_

Varian rubbed his temples and struggled to suppress the headache that was caused by both something—probably some_one_—picking at the edges of his consciousness and his own insanity.

_Light,_ he sighed inwardly as he walked a small distance away before he took up a watch of his own, and fought to gain control over the omnipresent sense of undead that pressed against him.

"Why can things never be easy?" he asked the ghoul that had attached itself to him.

The ghoul gave him a vacant look before it shambled over and took up a position at his side.

Varian smiled bitterly. "I will be glad to be rid of you, but until then, you're better company than the other option," he told it.

The ghoul made a contented sound.

_Soon,_ he vowed to himself. _Soon._

—

"_Stop._"

Varian grabbed Garrosh's cloak and yanked him backwards as he turned, which put the orc off-balance. Varian guided him to the ground before he quickly descended on Garrosh and pressed the Mag'har's face into the silt-like ice. Varian bore down on him with his weight distributed strategically in an attempt to make it nearly impossible for the orc to move.

He honestly couldn't believe he was helping to save Horde lives, but he felt that the death they were dying was too distasteful, even for such scum.

_Well, our luck had to run out _sometime.

Things had been going alarmingly well.

Not a single undead or mortal had bothered them while Garrosh slept, Arthas' presence was nothing but a tickle at the edge of his mind, and he had been given time to brood and curse whatever deity had it out for him.

However, after Garrosh had woken to find Varian's cloak being used as a blanket, the orc had asked—well, demanded—answers as to _why_. When Varian avoided the question, the argument had become heated, and an alarmingly large number of ghouls had come to check out what it was that angered their new master. With the prospect of being torn apart by numerous irate undead, Garrosh's demands had dissolved into simmering, annoyed, confused silence.

After that, the two had left the relative safety of the crevice and began their trek towards the tournament grounds once more.

Entry into the Bombardment had been as disorienting as Varian had feared it would be, and their proximity to Ymirheim was obviously driving Garrosh to distraction, from how the Mag'har would have killed a normal horse through whiplash by continually having to realign his steed.

"Scum."

"What?" Garrosh growled and looked over at him, and the dark red glow of his eyes was less pronounced than Varian was used to seeing, even with the living so close by.

_Perhaps the rest did help him. _

"Nothing," Varian answered, which caused the Mag'har to glare at him and call him something obscene in orcish.

When Varian responded with an equally vile insult in his native tongue, Garrosh was obviously astonished.

Varian had felt inexplicably smug for surprising Garrosh, and the enmity that constantly hung between them had taken on a strange quality. The hatred still lingered, quite potent, but there was something beneath it, a kind of frustrated bond of shared misery.

Varian was wary of the emotion, and had shied away from it, since it implied that he was growing accustomed to Garrosh's abhorrent presence.

Silence had fallen once more, and Varian had found himself gravitating slowly towards the orc, as the closer he was to Garrosh, the less the undead pressed against his mind. From how the tension in Garrosh's shoulders lessened slightly with him nearby, it seemed that _his_ presence suppressed the hunger that tore at the Mag'har.

Varian had noticed the strange distribution of shadows on the rocky ground a millisecond before Garrosh's sense triggered and the rogue was forced out of his stealth by both of their notice.

Garrosh had slid off the horse with alarming speed and rushed the troll, to the male's surprise.

Varian's steed had shimmied at the ferocity of the hunger that even Varian could feel. The king had looked around quickly, and cursed when he found that the rogue wasn't alone. As the troll fought desperately for his life, Varian saw that Garrosh's eyes were starting to glow a purple-ish hue, which probably meant that Arthas was making a bid for control—and with more than one mortal, Varian would be working against time to keep Garrosh from becoming more of a monster than he already was.

Varian had dismounted quickly, as he could tell that the mortal was dying—that _all_ the mortals were. Movements that had once been sure and strong were becoming agonized and slow as they gasped for air. Varian had grimaced before he reached out and brushed against the distasteful power that sat at his core.

Immediately, dozens of undead had come to his call to fight alongside the two Scourge he had picked up, which distracted and drove away the other Horde that had accompanied the rogue and allowed Varian to attend to Garrosh.

Varian could sense Garrosh tense to throw him off, so leaned in closer, his lips nearly next to the orc's ear. "_Garrosh_," he growled, his voice quiet, low, and commanding.

Varian had never thought he would intentionally stop breathing and seek to slow his heart to almost nothing, but, while the effort left him cold and light-headed, having someone who was more-or-less undead pinning him seemed to be pulling Garrosh out of the haze he had been caught in.

The warmth of the orc beneath him was intoxicating, and Varian found himself trembling from a consuming desire to press against Garrosh and attempt to draw some of that warmth into himself and banish the cold that he was painfully aware of again. If he happened to run a hand down the orc's side, pressed a little closer than he perhaps needed to, he justified it as a way to help Garrosh, odd as the concept was.

When Varian felt Garrosh fight off both his addiction and Arthas, he stood and backed off a few steps in case the orc decided to do something ridiculously stupid, or Arthas managed to break through and Varian was forced to defend himself. Varian looked around for their mounts and grumbled incoherently when his senses picked them up a distance away.

_That's troublesome._

To his relief, the mortals had all left, although the rogue had fallen and was being consumed by a few delighted ravenous ghouls. Varian's lip curled in distaste and he looked away, feeling oddly defiled.

"Spirits, worm, you're an _idiot._"

Varian snarled and whirled to face Garrosh, only idly noticing the hatred, confusion, and anger in the Overlord's eyes. "You're welcome."

"I didn't need your help!"

"Then you _wanted_ to become Arthas' minion? You _wanted_ to make those things suffer a prolonged, painful deaths?" Varian snapped.

"No!"

"Then why are you bitching?"

"Why did you save me?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes!"

"Why have you helped _me_, scum?"

"Because I wouldn't have your son an orphan. But why did you save me_?_ You hate my kind!"

"I know! I do_!_"

"Then _why_?"

"Because I _want_ you_!_ Now, come, the horses fled this way and the sooner we get to the Tournament grounds the sooner I can be rid of you."

The king stalked away, headed towards where he knew their steeds had bolted, when a hand on his wrist brought him up short.

Varian turned and punched Garrosh in the face, a snarl passing his lips, and the Mag'har's grip slackened enough for Varian to pull himself free and continue onward.

Garrosh was more careful, avoiding being hit in the face again by dragging Varian flush against him, pinning Varian's arms to his sides, the orc's body turned just enough that Varian couldn't get in a good hit to any particularly sensitive area.

"Let me _go_," the king growled. It was unfortunately hard to keep his anger though, from how Garrosh was pressing against him in all the wrong ways that felt _so good._

"Why did you help me?" Garrosh asked again, his voice a low growl next to Varian's ear that made the man work to change a moan into an unhappy snarl.

"Because I hate Arthas more than I hate you," Varian replied roughly, which, while being true, was only a secondary motivation.

"That wasn't what you said before."

Varian was trying to recall where the chinks in the orc's armor were as he strained against Garrosh's hold on him, but thought was ridiculously difficult under the onslaught of blissful _warmth_ he felt through Garrosh's armor. "I can have more than one reason. _Release me_," the king ordered.

"You said you want me."

Varian inwardly kicked himself. _Damn._

He managed to find a good angle with which to dig his armored elbow into a non-plate-covered area, which surprised the orc enough that the grip loosened so that Varian could break Garrosh's hold on him. Varian stalked forward again and followed his sense of their wayward steeds, having decided to avoid the topic that Garrosh brought up altogether. He half-saw, half-felt Garrosh come up beside him, the male's hazel eyes watching him carefully.

"What?" Varian snapped.

"You hate me."

"Yes."

"But you said you want me."

Varian's stopped and whirled on the orc, eyes narrowed. "Does it matter?" he snarled. "There are more important things to be focusing on."

Garrosh couldn't contradict the statement, but the curiosity never left his posture.

"What did you mean?" the orc asked after a long silence as they walked.

Varian growled dangerously. "It meant nothing."

"Bullshit."

Varian turned quickly on his heel, grabbed the Mag'har by his fairly tattered tabard, and his fingers tangled and tore the fabric. Garrosh's hand clamped down on Varian's wrist, and the pressure was painful, but easily ignored.

"I'm sure that the even monsters like you understand the implications of that statement," Varian drawled venomously. "I _hate_ you, but that doesn't stop the draw, the _need_."

Varian's free hand blocked the punch aimed at him as he stepped in close, violating the orc's personal space and nearly pressing against him.

"You're _alive_, you're _warm_, and you have no idea how _good_ that feels," he whispered, desire lacing his voice.

Varian's grip on Garrosh's hand changed into a subtle, painful caress and Garrosh jerked away violently and released his grip on Varian, obviously unconcerned of how the Horde symbol that had been emblazoned on his tabard was ripped off, which exposed some of his chest armor.

The orc snarled, although there was an odd, strained note in his voice that had nothing to do with any living.

The undead that tickled the edges of Varian's senses were thrown into complete confusion—they had never picked up _this_ kind of odd emotion from the Lich King and had no idea how to react to the strange intent that roiled through Varian.

Varian attempted to close the distance between he and Garrosh, but when the orc kept it between them, skeletal hands crept out of the forsaken ground and clung to Garrosh's legs to hold him securely in place.

Varian fleetingly debated releasing the orc, but had no real inclination to, as the unwilling confession had snapped something within him.

"What are you doing?" Garrosh hissed at him as he tried to break free, and kept Varian away by an uncoordinated punch.

"I want to tame you," Varian stated with a vicious smirk.

It was alarmingly true. He wanted to bend Garrosh, break him, make him _his_ because then he would have control over the strange, hateful thing that had grown inside him.

Garrosh bared his teeth at him and gave him a low, dangerous growl. "What do you think I am?"

"Just another wild beast," Varian replied languidly. "I've tamed quite a few stubborn animals before—you're no different."

There was a flicker of something in how the orc's posture tensed that had nothing to do with anger, but the emotion was quickly covered with a snarl.

"Arrogant human."

Varian shook his head and as he walked behind Garrosh he ran his fingers slowly across the Mag'har's armor. "You won't be Garrosh Hellscream—you'll be _mine._"

Varian could feel the Overlord shudder even through his armor.

"You want that, don't you?" Varian only half-asked.

"Never!"

"You'll see," the king whispered to the Mag'har, calculated arrogance in his voice.

"I belong to no-one!" Garrosh snarled and elbowed Varian in the stomach, which made the human stagger back a few steps. It was enough space for Garrosh to break the hold the skeletal appendages had on him. The orc put distance between them, and Varian watched him as carefully as Garrosh watched him.

An odd something ran through Varian, an emotion he couldn't quite name. He didn't care to name it, either, since it felt good.

Varian moved quickly, _needing_ to touch Garrosh again, but the Mag'har was prepared and able to meet Varian's attack with one of his own.

Varian guided a punch away from him and responded with one that was deflected by Garrosh. He didn't care, though, since _any_ touch imparted the warmth he craved.

The fight itself was somehow erotic, from how good it felt to have his hands on the Overlord again, to the pain that sent shivers of pleasure through him. Varian wanted to _feel_ Garrosh's skin bruising beneath his fingers, wanted to rid the orc of the paltry shell of armor to reach the intoxicating warmth. The blows were only half meant in anger—he _hated_ the orc, but there was _life_ in him that Varian could almost taste, the promise of relief from the undeath that was so close to claiming him entirely. The anger fed the lust that coursed through his veins, and the disgust he felt for the lust only increased his hatred, which fed his anger. It was a wonderfully brutal cycle that left him shaking and craving the orc more with each passing second.

As he sent Garrosh staggering back a step, he could see something hot, and dark, and tantalizingly forbidden in the Mag'har's gaze and anticipation squirmed in his gut.

_Want him._

_No, no, it's more than just _want…

He loathed that he loved having Garrosh's hands on him, but the blows he felt were almost as good as seeing pain and something _else_ flicker in the orc's posture every time he landed a solid hit.

Varian let out a cry of surprise when he took a step back and only air met his foot. He reached out and grabbed Garrosh, which resulted in both of them falling into a crevice neither of them had previously noticed. Varian idly registered that it had probably been used as cover at some point—not recently, from the signs of an old fight he observed—but that was quickly made unimportant from how hard he hit the ground and how Garrosh just barely caught himself so that he was hovering over Varian's prone form.

There was a breathless pause as the _ache_ for the orc overrode every other sensation, from the pain in his back from the fall to the omnipresent awareness of the undead.

Thought wasn't a consideration as Varian reached up and slid his hands underneath Garrosh's cloak and pushed him closer, seeking, wanting, _needing_ the warmth he had lost an eternity ago.

Garrosh's breath hitched when Varian easily found the buckle to his belt and removed it before he ripped off the tattered remains of tabard.

"What are you doing?" Garrosh demanded, although there was less anger in his voice then something…else.

Varian simply smirked malignantly, inhibitions thrown to the wind under the _need_ that coursed through him.

_So warm._

_So alive._

Varian could feel himself becoming aroused, which was distantly amusing, as he happened to be mostly dead, so he figured it should be fairly impossible for that kind of reaction to occur. He didn't really care, though, not if it brought breath back to his lungs, made his heart beat again.

It took a little effort, but he managed to throw Garrosh off him, even though his body screamed in protest at the sudden _lack_. He pounced on the orc, and the fight for dominance resumed.

In closer quarters, it was less a fist-fight than a wrestling match, which kept him almost constantly pressed against Garrosh and sent him alight with blissful sensation. Varian took shameful delight in how _good_ it felt to have the orc pinning him, pressing against him, forcing him to yield, but, Varian was a king, and he sure as the nether wasn't going to submit to _anyone_—no matter how much his body craved it, he had his pride.

Being mostly undead served to make his pain threshold just a little bit higher, and he took the opportunity of Garrosh recovering from a rock to the head to pin the orc on his stomach.

Varian was astonished when he laughed quietly, a dark, dangerous heat in his voice. The situation was absurd, but it seemed almost…inevitable. From that first realization of why he enjoyed fighting Garrosh so much to saving the orc from the despicable power that had been woken in him, it felt like it all led to _this_. To the knowledge that he _needed_ the orc, wanted to claim him, wanted to be claimed _by_ him, and he didn't find it as distasteful as he perhaps should have.

It took little effort to find what kept Garrosh's chest-armor held together and pick it apart before he tossed it casually away.

He ran a hand down the orc's back, and he felt Garrosh growl as he recovered from the daze of hitting something solid a little too hard. He was less astonished than he probably should have been when the orc arched into him, obviously seeking as much contact as Varian wanted, even if the snarl voiced indicated that the reaction was unwanted and unplanned.

"I told you I'm good at taming wild animals," Varian purred and slipped a hand beneath the cloth that prevented Garrosh's armor from chaffing his skin, and Garrosh shuddered from the different in temperature and texture between armor and skin.

"Get off me," Garrosh snarled viciously, and Varian yelled in fierce, pleased surprise when he was thrown off-balance.

It was everything Varian needed. He didn't know, and, frankly, didn't care, what Garrosh was experiencing, but he figured the orc didn't find it objectionable from how already warm skin heated beneath his violating caresses.

There was something there, in how the orc was obviously torn between wanting to keep Varian close while also wanting him away. It was deliciously disgusting, feeling the orc's hands on him, knowing that he was letting an _enemy_ touch him in a manner he had denied his allies, and it was _easy_ to see that Garrosh hated that he loved having Varian's hands on him. Bruises and scrapes and cuts didn't matter compared to the odd thing that twisted between them and bound them to each other, that dragged out their confrontation into something warped and glorious and hateful and _wrong _that left Varian panting with desire.

It took effort, but he eventually pinned Garrosh on his stomach again, one of the orc's arms trapped beneath him as Varian kept the other pressed tightly against the rocky ice.

"Just give up_,_" Varian snarled in orcish as he pressed against the orc, and delighted in the feel of skin-on-skin as he idly noticed that he lacked gloves and a chest piece while he had Garrosh down to just his lower-body armor.

Garrosh snarled beneath him, but there was less fight in him, as if something within him didn't mind how Varian broke him down and _welcomed_ the distasteful contact.

"You were scared, weren't you?" Varian purred, and his voice no longer held an odd echo, his disgusting awareness of Arthas as quiet as when he had spent hours in the Cathedral. "You ran away from dealing with the thing inside you—from _me_."

"You mean _noth—"_

Varian cut in with a feral snarl. "It is _you_ who are meaningless. You were nothing before you came to Azeroth."

Garrosh tensed to move, but Varian had found what bound the orc's leg armor and undid it, which made the Mag'har still in surprise and obvious disgusted anticipation.

Varian felt his erection pressing painfully against the inside of his armor, but it was oddly a secondary concern to the fascination of making Garrosh buckle.

"Even in exile, even when your filthy kind took everything away from me, _I _was still a _king_," Varian told the male beneath him, his voice laced with _need_ as he ran his fingers along the curve of Garrosh's back and ghosted over his buttocks.

Garrosh voiced a choked groan, and the sound made Varian shiver, since it meant he nearly had control over the Mag'har.

_Want him. _

_No, no, _need_ him._

Varian knew that the desire that had formed in his mind should have disgusted him, but his body _ached_ and Garrosh was warm, and real, and _alive._

Garrosh almost managed to throw him off, but the lightest pressure to what Varian remembered as a rather sensitive section of orcish physiology made Garrosh cry out in both pain and _need_. There was no mistaking the emotion in the orc's voice—not anymore. Whatever lived in Varian seemed to have its own, equally hated counterpart in Garrosh.

"You were nothing but the unwilling leader of a dying people," Varian whispered, malice in his voice.

Varian had been curious as a youth. No matter how close of an eye people tried to keep on him, he would still get into situations that he couldn't easily get out of. Some of those misadventures had turned out better than others, although he couldn't believe that something he had, at the time, felt had scarred him for life was coming in handy.

It took nearly no effort to keep Garrosh still, as he remembered all the places that had made orcs cave when he had hit them correctly when fighting them—and was amused to find that some of the surprise that his opponents had felt may have been from finding a racial erogenous zone, from how Garrosh would yell in want and _hate_.

Varian shivered as it dawned on him that he really was going to _have sex_ with _Garrosh Hellscream._

Before the more sensible part of him dissuaded him from doing something that was obviously Very Stupid, Varian ran a finger through the crack of Garrosh's ass.

"You want this." It was both a statement and a question. It would drive him insane, but he had his honor, and if Garrosh told him to stop, he would.

Even though he really, _really_ didn't want to.

The orc was shivering violently, and Varian idly noted that Garrosh was sporting a rather impressive erection himself.

"I _hate_ you!" Garrosh snarled, but there was an almost desperate need in his voice.

"You want this," Varian repeated as one hand ghosted slowly down the orc's body.

Garrosh arched into the touch and snarled at his weakness.

Varian's whole body was aching for _thing_ he had been fighting for so long, but he wouldn't—damn his honor, he _wouldn't_—unless the Mag'har consented.

"I _hate_ you, Varian Wrynn. But—" his voice hitched as Varian pressed down, unable to keep himself from seeking the warmth he wanted _so badly_.

_Stop it! _

_Don't. Can't. WON'T._

"_Spirits_, Varian, I hate you, but I _need you._"

_Light._

_Oh, Light._

_Yessss._

Varian took a moment to coat his fingers with spit before his fingers found Garrosh's anus and he pushed a digit in, which made the orc shudder and he didn't bother to clamp down on a needy, desperate sound.

Varian knew, to his chagrin and disgust, that if it had been the opposite, if _he_ was being pinned by Garrosh…

_Oh, Light…_

It took all his willpower to keep himself from following through on the irrational desire that burned through him. He was a _king_, damnit, and Garrosh was a mere Overlord.

Varian pressed another finger in, and Garrosh's hand clawed at the icy dirt as a sound of pure _need_ escaped him.

Varian fumbled with one hand to get his lower body armor off, but he managed as he distracted Garrosh by moving his fingers inside the orc.

Garrosh snarled in shameful protest when Varian withdrew his fingers, but the growl turned into a sound of pain and shock and almost _glee_ as Varian pressed his cock in.

It was strange.

It was wrong.

But it felt _so good._

He forced himself to move, and the shift made him shudder and groan.

_It has been far, far too long._

The sounds he elicited from the orc were fascinating, and the warmth he drew from the orc's body was almost as good as the sex itself, because it reminded him that he _wasn't_ dead. Arthas' voice was silenced entirely, the omnipresent sense of the undead was gone, and all that remained was an awareness of _sensation_ that bound him to the orc beneath him.

Garrosh groaned in ecstasy and pushed back into Varian's thrusts, silent commands in his body language that Varian was more than happy to oblige.

Garrosh's voice choked on a syllable as Varian pounded into him, touched him, hurt him, soothed him, but the word eventually emerged in its entirety as the orc came violently.

"_Varian_."

The shock of hearing _his_ name coming from _those_ lips was intense and the extra resistance and the knowledge that _he_ had made _Garrosh Hellscream_ cum was what pushed Varian over the edge, a name he thought he'd _never_ say with anything other than venom passing his lips.

It was the best orgasm he had in years.

Perhaps in his entire life, which was somewhere between pathetic and terrifying.

Once he had come down from the high he hadn't felt in far too long he pulled out and sat down perhaps a little harder than intended as the situation sunk in.

What was most surprising was that he _wasn't_ surprised. It had the feeling of inevitability, and he was feeling far too good to care. From the look in Garrosh's amber eyes when he finally turned towards him, Varian could tell that he hated himself for loving it, and a different kind of hunger was slowly winding its way through him, forcing him to face all the things he had been vehemently denying.

It was _wrong_.

Then why did it feel so…

"I hate you," Varian purred.

Garrosh's lips twisted in a smirk that made Varian's stomach twist in anticipation.

He wanted to feel Garrosh pinning him, feel the consuming, blissful heat of his body bearing down on him. He relished the odd possibility of being forced to submit, of being controlled and manipulated and able to relinquish himself to another.

But that would have to wait.

He was sweating slightly, warmth returned to him—but he could tell that it was only temporary. He had no time to lose if he wanted to get to the Tournament grounds while being free of Arthas' stranglehold.

It seemed that the orc realized as well that they needed to take advantage of what they had before it faded.

"I will get back at you for this, human."

Varian looked at Garrosh as he tossed the orc a piece of his armor that was nearby and smirked. "You will try."

Even though what had happened should have changed something, should have altered some sort of dynamic between them, Varian couldn't help but reflect that _nothing_ had changed—the hateful thing that bound them had simply been recognized as inescapable.

—

About a half-hour after he had come down from a smug haze of pleasure, Arthas had begun to reassert his control, and the brief absence of his presence made it all the more unbearable.

The reminder of the Scourge within him was distasteful, and the awareness of the undead after the brief, blissful silence was enough to drive him mad.

_Damn you, Arthas._

Varian was trying a thousand different things to distract himself from the voice that had begun to whisper in his mind again, but was failing, for the most part. He was succeeding enough that Arthas didn't have any control, but not enough to prevent it from being damningly hard to think.

"How do you think they'll react?" Varian eventually asked, which broke the oddly comfortable silence between he and Garrosh.

"Who?" Garrosh replied warily.

"The people at the tournament. The first time that the crusaders saw us, they attacked. I doubt much has changed," he finished with an undercurrent of rage in his voice.

Garrosh grunted. "There are worse ways to die."

Varian barked a quiet, angry laugh. "As long as there is a _shred_ of Scourge within me, I refuse to die."

"I wasn't _planning_ on dying," Garrosh snapped.

Varian shook his head, then pulled his recovered horse to a stop and looked at Garrosh, eyes searching. "Tell me, Garrosh Hellscream. What do you live for?"

Garrosh frowned. "What?"

"What motivates you?" Varian demanded, and moved his horse so it hindered Garrosh's forward progress.

"I don't need to explain myself to _you_," the orc sneered.

"Tell me so I can fling it in your face and you will snap out of whatever hold Arthas has on you should you fall too far."

"What about _you_, human king?"

"Anduin," Varian answered succinctly.

"Your son?"

"I promised him I would never become Scourge. If nothing else gets through to me, _that_ will."

"Why tell me this now?"

Varian looked in the general direction of the tournament grounds. "There are many powerful Light-wielders there who could help us. But, we look, _feel_, like Scourge. Arthas' greatest enemy spends time there—he may make a bid for control then, just to spite Tirion."

_Not to mention me._

Garrosh silently regarded Varian before he sneered. "Your motivation is almost sickeningly sweet."

Varian ignored the jibe, since there was an odd sense of longing beneath it. "Well?"

"If you can't get through to me, Varian, nothing will."

Varian frowned as Garrosh moved around him. The vague words and the use of his name confused him, but he pushed the emotion aside and turned his horse so that he once again rode alongside the Mag'har.

Varian oriented himself towards Sindragosa's Fall—and the Tournament grounds. "There is no good way to get to the tournament grounds—it's not possible to avoid the cultists entirely."

Garrosh spat something uncomplimentary about those who would _willingly_ give their lives to Arthas, a sentiment with which Varian agreed.

He wasn't certain how he'd react to being around the living again. Being surrounded by the undead had been torture, the creatures constantly pressing against him, but being around those who were dying…well, he wasn't sure how that would go.

Varian's eyes flickered briefly over to Garrosh before he scowled in the general direction of the Citadel. _And we have to look out for Garrosh. Light, how odd that sounds. But…we've put too much effort into this, and there's the odd _thing_ that binds us now._

"We simply go through the Fall, then," Garrosh stated and picked up the pace slightly.

The moment the _nothings_ registered on his senses, he saw Garrosh lurch forward before he pulled himself back, a look of disgust on his features. Varian quickened his steed's stride to keep pace with Garrosh, their mounts nearly touching.

The disgust took on a different flavor, but the tension in Garrosh's posture loosened slightly. The closer they got to the Fall, the more nothing-s registered on his hateful sense, and the tighter Garrosh's hands gripped the reins.

Varian wasn't surprised when Garrosh pulled his steed to a stop, and he could distinctly see Garrosh was fighting the power that had become a part of him. Varian reached out and grabbed the orc's wrist, which made Garrosh look over sharply—although the deep red of his eyes had dimmed slightly.

Varian moved as close as he could and ran his hand up Garrosh's arm to rest at the base of his skull.

"Don't," Varian commanded, and the glow of Garrosh's eyes dimmed to what Varian defined as normal.

Garrosh growled a warning before he wrenched himself away and headed towards an incline that would serve to get them onto the glacier of Sindragosa's Fall.

They passed the ruins of a former camp and Varian snarled in disgust.

_Monster. Coward._

All he received in response to his insults was a kind of detached amusement.

Varian's horse leapt nimbly across a small gap, and he was both amused and pleased when Garrosh's made it as well.

The incline they needed to travel up to get to the glacier was steep, but not unmanageable, and he shortly found himself on the surface of the large block of ice.

Garrosh arrived beside him and Varian looked over in time to see the male shiver.

"Let's keep moving," Garrosh said, and the hunger in his voice was unmistakable.

Varian saw both awe and fear reflected in the eyes of the cultists they passed, and Varian closed himself off to the pleas for his blessing, his favor, to the needy, greedy sounds of the cultists as the temptation of power hung before them.

It was painfully obvious that Garrosh was struggling to resist the power that had claimed him. It was in his posture, the glow of his eyes, his grip on the reins of his horse. Varian was relieved that being around the living didn't pull at him as much as it used to, as if the hateful thing within him was content with the intimate connection to the Scourge unless an opportunity should present itself.

An opportunity all too quickly provided.

Varian couldn't intervene in time to prevent one cultist from throwing himself at Garrosh in supplication, the man coming into contact with the orc in the process.

The transformation was immediate and horrifying. The energy that breathed life into the mortal was sapped away and transferred into the orc who sat stiffly in his saddle. Instantaneously, Garrosh seemed…healthier. Less exhausted. But the _hunger_ that was always so carefully controlled was nearly overwhelming, and the grip he had on the reins of his steed was probably painful.

The human fell to the ground, a lifeless husk that _pulled_ at Varian's power, which begged him to be used. The cultist had given his life to help Garrosh—surely that should be rewarded.

Varian tore his mind away and snarled in frustration as he moved to intercept Garrosh, which sent the ghoul and vyr'kul that had attached themselves to him wild.

It took all of Varian's skill and speed to keep between Garrosh and any other mortals, doing his best to keep Garrosh from coming into any more contact with the life energy he so desperately desired.

The power that sat within him whispered that he should simply let Garrosh obtain what he wanted—_needed_—for it was cruel to deny him, and after Garrosh's hunger had been satiated, Varian could raise all the dead into his service, so that they would continue to be useful, even past death.

But Garrosh was fighting the desperate desire to drain any who came near him and ease what ate at him, and Varian intended to help him, odd as the idea was—they were so close to the grounds, so close to possible salvation. He _couldn't_ let Garrosh succumb to the Scourge that Arthas had embedded within him.

"_Garrosh_," he hissed as he blocked the orc's way once more.

The darkly burning red of the orc's eyes dimmed slightly, and there was enough of a hitch in movement for Varian to reach out, grab Garrosh's forearm, and drag him close enough that his other arm could reach across Garrosh's chest and curl his hand around his neck, the gesture both a warning and oddly intimate.

"Don't," Varian commanded again, and he _felt_ Garrosh shivering. "It won't be fun killing you if you're _his_."

Their eyes met and Varian was surprised when one of Garrosh's hands moved to rest possessively on his hip, the shivers having died down somewhat.

"You only _think_ you're good enough to kill me," Garrosh said, hunger of a different kind beginning to lace his words.

Varian grinned, the expression feral. "Don't think so highly of your pathetic skills."

Varian wanted to give in to the craving he had finally succumbed to, but they were close—so _damn_ close—to where they needed to be.

So it would have to wait.

Unfortunately.

Varian removed his hand from Garrosh's neck before he shoved the orc away, an oddly malevolently smile forming on his face.

"Come on. I'm sick of your disgusting presence."

Garrosh sneered as the ghoul rejoined them, the vyr'kul thankfully absent, and as they approached the entrance to the Tournament grounds, Varian sent up a prayer to whatever deity may humor him that things would go decently.

Not that they would.


	8. Recognition

**Author**: I really don't mean for these chapters to be so blighted long, but they end up that way anyway. I'm sorry if this isn't usual quality for me, but I ended up writing and re-writing, and re-re-writing this chapter. : /

**Warnings**: Violence, Varian's temper, some words

**Disclaimer**: Would I be writing _fan_fiction if I owned WoW?

**Recognition**

"This is a bad idea, isn't it?"

"I refuse to go skulking around the sides onto the grounds—it is cowardly and would make us look suspicious."

"As if we don't look suspicious enough already."

"Shut up."

There was a brief pause before Varian said, "They're going to try to kill us."

Garrosh gave him a savage grin. "They will fail."

Varian smirked. "I know they won't kill _me_. You, however…"

"Arrogant human," Garrosh sneered. "Don't think so high—"

Garrosh's retort was cut short as his horse was cut down, and Varian swore as he avoided a volley of arrows.

Varian dismounted his horse and drew his weapon as he sent his steed away. He took a brief survey of his surroundings and snarled. He and Garrosh had been deemed a threat and now the force of the Argent Crusade was being brought to bear on them.

The Scourge power within him rose unbidden and skeletal claws erupted from the ground to capture anyone who moved towards him. Varian dodged a bullet imbued with arcane power and grimaced, one hand going to his head. Any—_all_—undead in the area were responding to his peril, ignoring his insistence that he would be fine—he could feel them approaching like a wave of darkness and disease.

He absently cut an arrow down before it could hit his armor.

_Have to keep moving._

Evasion was his best defense, since only ranged attackers had a hope of hitting him. It was easier to avoid arrows and bullets than spells or curses, and more than once he felt his body shudder from an affliction of one type or another from a warlock he couldn't pinpoint.

_Light, don't give us another reason to hate the class, _Varian thought vehemently as his body ached from an unseen spell.

Varian dodged a pyroblast and winced at the amount of the glacial ice it melted. He remembered quite clearly how it had felt when a fireball of that magnitude had hit him and had no desire to repeat the experience. He was then forced to twist his body in a way that would have been painful had he been fully alive so as to avoid a barrage of arcane energy as another mage joined the assault. It was a warped dance, and one he resented.

The undead pressed insistently against his mind and he winced, both at the shadowbolt that had made contact and the sense.

**Kill them all.**

Varian caught his voice as it began to echo the command and he forced it still as a grimace formed on his features.

_So loud._

He felt _every_ undead on the battlefield, could tell when they died a true death and the weight of hundreds of consciousnesses pressed against him. He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his mind and swatted aside an arrow, his teeth bared.

**No mercy.**

One of Varian's hands found its way to his head and he shuddered. He heard a silent roar of agony sweep through the ranks of the undead as they picked up on his emotions.

He swept out his sword and forced those who managed to get in melee range away, and a snarl that was more animal than human passed his lips. Varian's eyes fell on a crusader that had been beset by the undead that sought to protect him. The young woman struggled for every breath, an odd mixture of desperation and resignation in her eyes.

**End it**.

Varian tore his gaze away as his fingers tightened painfully about his sword.

_We want to._

His power whispered that it would be a mercy to finish the girl and end her suffering, that it would be the _right _thing to do.

_But it won't end there,_ he thought and was horrified that he had taken a few steps towards the woman.

_No!_

He looked around quickly and found that there was a substantial distance between he and Garrosh.

_Can't get too far from him, _he thought fleetingly and moved quickly back towards the orc.

It appeared that Garrosh felt the same, since he helped to close the gap between them, too.

Varian hated it, how necessary Garrosh had become, but the Mag'har's presence curbed the gross thing inside him and subdued Arthas' voice slightly.

_Surely people will become curious as to why we aren't retaliating,_ he thought as he forced himself to ignore the pain of curses heaped upon curses. He felt a mass of Scourge die and grit his teeth.

'Get out of range, get out of range, can't be hurt that way.'

Garrosh staggered against Varian as the orc was forced back by a concussive shot from a hunter and Varian briefly found himself supporting him. The contact was welcome, and pushed the omnipresent sense of the undead down to a more manageable level.

However, the respite was all too brief as a bullet came dangerously close to a chink in Varian's armor, and he grimaced. The unholy power within him was straining against him and he felt like he was standing in a roiling void, the dead and undead clashing and driving his strange sense haywire. The power escaped him for a moment and a ring of desecration swiftly spread out beneath he and Garrosh. The mortals unlucky enough to be caught in its area cried out in agony before they dropped to the ground, dead in seconds. Varian voiced a wordless sound of horror as his power groped for the now-corpses and he could see the smallest flicker of pale, unhealthy green light in empty eyes.

His power was abruptly curbed as Varian's attention shifted when he caught a glimpse of a rogue a second before she attacked, and her poisoned daggers skittered across plate armor instead of finding their mark. Varian backhanded her, which made the rogue stagger into the embrace of the undead that had arrived to protect Varian.

Varian snarled at the Scourge, and instead of being torn to pieces, the ghouls simply dragged the rogue away from him.

Varian turned to check on Garrosh and the shift of his attention made a flesh giant lumber to Garrosh's aid, which helped to drive away mortals who had gotten a little too close. The removal seemed to help prevent the hunger that coiled within Garrosh to grow further—although from how the movements of those he fought had slowed, Varian could tell that Garrosh's power had slipped slightly out of his control. Varian maneuvered himself within hearing range and Garrosh caught his movement and gave him a small smirk.

"Pity that you're still alive," Garrosh panted in the small breather they had achieved, although there was a _hunger_ in his voice that made Varian uneasy. The deep purple-red glow of his eyes was disconcerting and Varian grabbed his arm as he gave Garrosh a cocky smile.

"The Crusade must be getting weaker if you're still around."

It felt good to be touching Garrosh, and from the tension working slowly into Garrosh's frame, it was obvious that while Garrosh's control over his power had been slipping, he hadn't been minding.

"Remember—it's no fun for me to kill you if you're _his_," Varian murmured before he pulled Garrosh out of the line of fire of a bullet that should have dazed him and used him as a focal point to turn as the fight began anew.

The crusaders were learning ways to get around the grasping claws and were closing in on he and Garrosh—which was inadvisable, but they couldn't know that.

"I can take damage and curses," Garrosh said, his voice tight with pain and perverse _need_. "You keep the Light-people entertained."

Varian understood what was both said and unsaid. Garrosh could handle damage—the ambient presence of so many _living_ was obviously driving Garrosh insane, but also keeping him healed. Varian was able to take the presence of the Light, to a degree, so he would be able to stay on the defensive against the crusaders, who made up the majority of the attackers.

Varian shifted his grip on Shalyamane and slipped into a comfortable battle stance.

_We promised Anduin we would never leave him. _

With a snarl of defiance, Varian drew the attention of a group of Crusaders—paladin all. Varian danced outside the radius of holy energy that swirled around a paladin, only to be confronted with another who consecrated the ground beneath them, which made Varian yell in pain before he stepped outside its border. He grit his teeth at the shock of Light energy that went racing through his body and parried a sword-stroke which imparted a tiny pulse of Light between them that made Varian hiss and shove the paladin away.

While the Light pushed back Arthas' voice, it hurt a thousand times worse than when he had been fully-human. It still cleansed him, but the price was much steeper.

Varian noticed when a priest began to gather Light in his hands and Varian charged him, which dazed him and pulled the attention of Light-users to him and away from Garrosh. Varian was sure that the Crusaders were wondering why someone who probably appeared undead would willingly subject himself to the more aggressive side of the Light, but he didn't have time to consider what might be going through the minds of those who wanted to kill him.

He snarled as his body briefly went numb from the vengeful holy energy that buffeted him, but it was becoming steadily easier to throw off the influence.

_Probably adapting to the Light. Light, how strange that sounds._

As Varian staggered back from searing pain of the Light judging him and finding him wanting in his undeath, a roar echoed through the canyon that made Varian shudder.

_Oh, Light. A _frostwyrm_?_

The undead dragon landed hard enough to make the ground shake and positioned itself so it covered Varian. The dragon's tail lashed out and flung attackers away as one of its claws swiped out and removed more threats, the other claw remaining close to Varian in a protective gesture. The dragon used its body to intercept any projectiles and spells that were sent Varian's way, and snarled in indignation at the little stings.

"Wait! Wait, st—"

Varian shivered as he felt mortals die, and his power whispered that they were deserving of their deaths for fighting against him—it would only be a fitting retribution to raise them as his servants.

Varian staggered and grabbed onto one of the dragon's bones, as his whole body ached with the power that pleaded with him to be used, and he idly noticed that the ground beneath his feet was curling and glowing with the strength of the unholy energy that coursed through him. His body tensed as hundreds of voices cried out in pain, and he felt the Light tear through the ranks of Scourge.

'Go up gain the ground advantage make them tire themselves on the rocky ice pick them off before they can get to you.'

His power whispered that those he fought had been his friends, but now tried to kill him. It wasn't right that they would turn on him in his time of need. They _deserved_ to be killed and risen, they would never be able to betray him again, they would be his and unable to refuse him anything.

_N-no…_

_That's it. That's _why _he..._

Varian voiced a bitter, slightly panicked laugh as he watched paladin advance on him once more as they kept themselves protected from his—oh, Light, from _his—_frostwyrm using the Light.

The frostwyrm howled in rage and exhaled a blast of icy energy, and those unlucky enough to not move quickly died in the abrupt, bitter cold.

Varian swallowed hard as the dead bodies _yanked_ at his power, empty shells that waited to be filled with the energy that he could provide. All around him were others who lay dead on the ice, and Varian coughed as each pulled on him. He looked over to where an orc warrior lay and his body tensed at how a pale green glow ghosted out of her eyes, and her unseeing gaze was fixed on him. As he watched in horror, her body twitched as if in an attempt to stand. Varian snarled in desperation and only a desperate bid for control over his power made her body shudder then fall back to the ice.

_Too close. Too close. This is bad._

Varian grimaced and looked around for Garrosh, idly wondering if he fared any better—only to see that he fought his Warchief.

He fleetingly hoped they killed each other, but he was forced to return his attention on the fight almost immediately.

The undead were slowly coming in ever increasing numbers and were beginning to outnumber the living. Their presence was both balm and bane to Varian, since they provided substance in the _nothing_ that attempted to consume him, but they also pulled against his power, sought his command, barraged him for orders, and he cried out in pain and frustration.

_We promised Anduin we wouldn't leave him_, he thought vehemently as he fought against both the living and the dead.

_We will do what we must._

Varian dodged beneath the head of a mace that was swung at him, then kicked the paladin who attacked him into a nearby priest, and ignored the snap of bone—although he hoped that it was just an arm or a leg and not a neck or back. He shook off the pain that slammed into him as he grabbed an Argent Crusader by the tabard and tossed away and into the waiting arms of a pack of ghouls. He pulled up his sword in time to turn away a strike from another combatant—a warrior?

_We suppose they see that the Light isn't working as well as it should on us._

He twisted as someone attacked him from behind and the warrior that faced him was forced to block the attack meant for Varian.

Unholy power surged in him and his attention was easily divided between those who attacked him and those who attacked the Scourge that had come to his aid.

_They're being sloppy. _Very_ sloppy,_ Varian thought distantly._ We can tell where they're going to strike next and _how_._

He dodged a strike and kicked his attacker away before his perspective shifted to that of a val'kyr hovering in the air over the battlefield. _There._

The Scourge surged to fulfill his intent, and Varian grimaced as his hand went to his head.

_Didn't expect that, did they?_

He fell back slightly and a score of undead came to him and threw themselves at the Crusaders who sought Varian's life.

'Strike there and there—they won't be ready,' he said only partly with his voice and the Scourge immediately reacted to his command. The Scourge cut into the Crusade forces, and while it did little to dent the offensive—the Scourge he commanded might overwhelm in numbers, but they were only lesser Scourge, and so easily defeated, but it still made the Light-users reel.

'They should never underes—'

Varian shuddered and was drawn back to his physical self by a well-placed fireball that heated the armor around his knee and made him wince.

Varian's grasp on reality was solidified by the haze of pain from a warlock's spell, but he felt the Scourge around him scour the area for the caster who would _dare_ afflict their master.

Varian saw his ghoul—_when did we decide it was ours?_—jump onto the back of a nearby hunter and rip the gun out of the dwarf's hands while it also dodged the hunter's grasp. The ghoul pushed away and ran off with the gun before it came up beside Varian, injured but happy to be so, since it meant it was protecting its master, and Varian inexplicably smiled. There was something endearing about its single-minded devotion; it was almost like having a puppy, albeit a very ugly one.

While the fight for his survival had become exponentially easier due to the presence of a very large undead dragon and the direct aid of the ghoul that had attached itself to him, he was tiring from fighting to keep the unholy power poisoning him under tenuous control.

The subtle awareness of the decay of the living had come back full force, and the draw, the _need_, to halt the process in its tracks nearly overwhelmed him. He wanted to kill the living to spare them future pain. His hands tightened on his sword as his power whispered to him with ever sweeter words.

He dodged a frostbolt from an elf would die in a magical accident.

He turned aside the daggers of a human that would be poisoned.

He sent the demon summoned by a gnome who would die from a prolonged decline into old age back to the twisting nether.

The troll shaman that was dragged away by a pack of ghouls that responded to his plight would be killed by her own creeping madness.

_Surely it would better to keep them from their p—no, no, _no_! _

Varian stomped down on the ground and sent a shockwave before him which sent a priest staggering back before Varian had to stop a strike from one paladin while another flanked him and a third approached him from the side. Varian swept his sword out in a wide semi-circle, which forced his attackers to back away as he fought to force the Scourge back as well. The dragon above him howled her—_her_?—anger and a blast of freezing energy sent crusaders and adventurers skittering away. Only those close to Varian—who was more or less beneath the dragon—had an opportunity to strike him anymore.

He deflected an attack from a massive two-handed weapon, and was both annoyed and relieved to find that the draenei was protected by a divine shield that turned his repose away. Varian was quickly occupied by his other opponents, though, and the ground beneath him was consecrated successively and separately by the three different paladin, which made him shudder. While it still hurt, it wasn't half as bad as it had been during the beginning of the battle and he shook off the pain easily. It wasn't easy, fighting those who were blessed with might and possessed auras that gave them protection, smote him with holy energy whenever he attacked, and brought them a level of concentration that Varian knew he would never match, but he _had_ to. He had promised Anduin that he would never leave him.

Varian snarled at the Light that skittered across him, but it was bearable and Arthas' voice was weakened—even if the dead _did_ press against him with increasing insistence. Varian smiled grimly as he picked out the healer among them and dazed the human before he used the man as a way to remove the damage-dealing paladin from the battle, which left him only with the one who had sought to protect them all.

Varian shuddered when he both felt and heard the dragon above him roar in pain and rage at a potent, focused attack against her.

**KILL THEM ALL.**

Varian choked the words down, but the command, the intent had been passed on to the Scourge around him and they were thrown into a frenzy, warped cries pulled from decaying throats as they did the bidding of their commander.

It was getting progressively harder to distance himself from the undead he commanded. He was too closely entwined with undeath—the elf had said he was more Scourge than human, and Varian knew it to be true. He only needed to use his hands to count the number of time his heart had beaten during the battle, afterall.

Varian lurched out of the way of a dazing, Light-empowered shield, and the strength within him simmered close to his skin, breathlessly awaiting his call. He growled at his attacker and found that he had unconsciously directed the Scourge around him, and the fighters were obviously surprised by how quickly the Scourge answered him.

He could _feel_ that the scales were slowly tipping in favor of the Scourge…and that it was a result of _him._

_Oh Light, what are we doing?_

_Can't…Anduin…_

Varian's eyes squeezed shut and he grit his teeth.

_No! He _will not _win!_

He was prepared for an attack from one of the paladin he had fought, but when no shock of Light ran through him, he slowly opened his eyes to see that the Crusaders watched him warily, but no longer sought his death. Puzzled, Varian forced himself to take steps _away_ from them, regardless of how his power screamed at him to kill them while they retreated, and it took all his self-control to keep still. Being bound so closely made the Scourge react immediately to his intent and they all fled in a tidal wave of disease, and Varian found that his mind was progressively his own again.

_Oh Light._

_What did we almost do?_

Varian found he was shivering, but not from cold—from how tempting the power was, how close he had come to giving into it, how he found himself _wanting_ to use it. It sang through his body and was merely a thought away.

Varian turned when he felt a familiar presence come up behind him, to find Garrosh carefully making his way around the savage talons of his frostwyrm that flexed as he walked—_walked?_—to Varian.

"Garrosh?" Varian asked warily, wearily, and was aware that his voice echoed slightly. To his relief, as the Mag'har approached, it became easier to ignore the power that urged him to _use it._

"Thrall recognized me," Garrosh growled, which made Varian's eyebrows rise slightly.

_That explains why Horde hasn't attacked us lately and the Crusade's left us alone. Wait…_

"And you told him to stop attacking me," Varian said slowly, and found that he had unconsciously leaned towards Garrosh.

Garrosh scowled. "I still need to get back at you for the glacier."

Varian's lips twitched in a slight smile, especially when Garrosh pulled him tightly to him, as the contact was pure bliss.

Garrosh looked up at the dragon who regarded him with the same intent that a person would give a noisome bug that landed nearby, as if she debated how hard she would have to flick Garrosh to send him away.

Garrosh growled.

The frostwyrm seemed amused.

_We didn't think that these _had_ personalities._

"So, what did you arrange?" Varian asked absently as he focused on the feel of Garrosh's body against him.

" 'Don't kill us' isn't enough?"

Varian snorted. "You have a lot to learn about politics."

Garrosh scowled.

The frostwyrm's talons dug into the rocky ice.

"This one yours?"

"Now she is." Varian doubted he could make her go away anyway.

Silence fell briefly before Garrosh said, "Thrall wants to talk with us—Tirion does as well."

Varian frowned slightly. "Do they know who I am?"

"I don't think so." Garrosh looked up at the frostwyrm and said, "Good luck finding a leash large enough for your newest pet."

The frostwyrm hissed at the Garrosh, who sneered at it. Garrosh pulled away, turned, and dragged Varian behind him as they walked from the battlefield.

Varian followed passively as he regained his wits and shoved wailing _shame_ down. He looked up at the undead dragon and said, "Behave."

The dragon affected miffed very well as Varian gained his own feet to walk beside Garrosh and idly wondered how badly the meeting would go.

Still, Varian was mildly annoyed.

_Garrosh is nowhere near as important as we are and people figured out who he is first,_ he groused. _Then again, Thrall was here, and he knows that creature's techniques well. No-one who is close to us is here…_

Varian sighed inwardly as they gave the grounds a wide berth. _Not that there _are_ many people close to us._

The pair came to a stop at the edge where Icecrown became the Storm Peaks and looked out over the Tournament grounds. Icecrown Citadel loomed in the distance, and Arthas' voice slowly reasserted itself as Varian waited.

Varian toyed with the clasp of his cloak as he shifted his weight from foot to foot in impatience, and the frostwyrm that had claimed him coiled around him protectively while Garrosh paced a small distance away, obviously tense and ashamed.

They were a suitable distance away from any living _or_ undead (save for the dragon who had followed Varian), so while their powers weren't nullified, there would be more of a chance to kill them if things should become tricky.

Varian noticed the mortals who approached them the same time Garrosh did, and he watched Thrall and Tirion as carefully as they watched him.

The frostwyrm gave them a once over before snorting, shifting, and going back to casually observing.

"How did this happen?" Thrall asked Garrosh without preamble once he was close enough to hear and speak comfortably, but not close enough for there to be much of a drain as a result of Garrosh's abilities.

"Which part?" Garrosh answered dryly as Varian ran his hand over the bones of his frostwyrm's face. "The becoming Scourge, ending up in Icecrown, or traveling with a person I hate?"

"You think I enjoy your company any more, scum?" Varian sneered. The absence of his ghoul was oddly distressing, but he faintly remembered that it had taken a hit for him that would have killed him otherwise.

"No-one asked your opinion," Garrosh snapped.

"I don't know why anyone wants yours."

Tirion coughed emphatically and Varian quieted and simply glared at Garrosh, who scowled at him.

"All of it," Thrall said.

"It started when I saved you from here, I think."

"You actually think?" Varian drawled.

"Shut up," Garrosh growled before turning back to Thrall. "I returned to Warsong Hold and, a few days later, noticed that my men seemed…weaker."

"Because they _are_."

Garrosh snarled at Varian, who crossed his arms over his chest. "A weak leader breeds weak men."

"Spirits, Varian, shut up before I tear your throat out."

Varian bared his teeth in a feral grin. "You can only try."

"_Stop this,_" Tirion broke in, and Varian eyed the Light that was beginning to gather around the paladin's hands warily. Their eyes met and Tirion demanded, "Who _are_ you?"

"You don't want—"

"He's Varian Wrynn," Garrosh sneered, which caused Varian to snarl at him.

Tirion frowned and looked over to Garrosh. "Who?"

"Varian," Varian said, but his statement did little to ease the confusion on Tirion and Thrall's faces.

"They are speaking Scourge."

Varian's hand immediately went to his sword and the frostwyrm stood and snarled at the death knight who approached. The orc who had joined them was the champion for the Ebon Blade and Varian remembered him from the battle—remembered that it had been _he_ who had started the assault_._

However, he also knew that it would only destroy all chances of an alliance with Tirion if he killed the death knight, no matter how much it tempted him.

Tirion was obviously as displeased with Crok's presence as Varian was. "Can you understand them?"

"No," Crok replied shortly. "When we broke free of the Lich King's control, we lost knowledge of the Scourge tongue. I can recognize it, but I can't speak or understand it." Crok's bright blue gaze was cold and accusatory. "It is foolish to have them here when they are obviously tied tightly to the Lich King."

"Have you seen any death knight fight as they do?" Thrall asked calmly. "Have you seen anyone struggle against the Lich King as they do and _succeed_ at keeping their will? They may be bound now, but if the Ebon Blade death knights found release, so can they."

Crok looked at Thrall before laughing bitterly. "You set yourself up for catastrophic failure. But, there is always the possibility…" The death knight bowed mockingly. "Take care, Warchief. Highlord."

Varian's eyes narrowed and Garrosh took a step forward as his hands went to his weapons.

"Garrosh."

Thrall's quiet command once the death knight was out of hearing made Garrosh back down, although anger was still tight in his posture. "At least let me maim—"

"No."

Garrosh shifted in his feet in annoyance before he frowned. "You can understand me, but you can't understand Varian?"

Thrall nodded slightly. "I know what you're saying—but your companion speaks a language unlike any I've heard. You speak it as well, when you're talking with him, or even simply referring to him."

Varian frowned and the frostwyrm nudged him gently as it picked up on his displeasure.

_Strange. We can't tell at all. It feels like we're speaking Common._

"In any event," Thrall said and looked back to Garrosh, obviously stamping down a shiver of unease at the quiet, malignant glow of the Mag'har's eyes. "You were saying something before your argument and the death knight?"

Garrosh glared at Varian who met his gaze with an equally venomous one.

"As long as _he_ is around, I doubt I'll get much done," Garrosh drawled which made Varian growl quietly.

"It's not like you have much to say. I can guess your story anyway. You found out you're Scourged and then you ran away like a _coward_."

Garrosh bared his teeth and Varian shifted on his feet. "I did _not _run away! It was for their safety! At least I _care_ for my men."

Varian snarled. "How _dare_ you imply that I neglect my duties to my people!"

"Your _people_ are beginning to resent you. How is that the mark of a good king?"

Varian felt his stomach twist at the knowledge that Garrosh was at least partly right—there was discontent amongst his people, but that was, unfortunately, unavoidable. "Not everyone at Warsong Hold is glad to have you as their leader. I'm sure a great many mortals stay under your command just because of their respect for your pet 'war hero'," Varian sneered.

Garrosh bristled. "Saurfang has more honor than all of your generals combined."

"He killed women and children!"

"Your kind are guilty of the same!"

"I fought to save my people, while _you_ were simply sulking like a _brat_ in Nagrand."

"_Stop_."

Varian's eyes shifted to Tirion and Thrall, both of whom obviously disapproved of he and Garrosh's argument.

"We are getting nowhere and we _need_ to know what happened. As the human can provide no information and hinders Garrosh's ability to respond, it is pointless and detrimental to have you both here. Perhaps, once we find someone who can translate what the man says, or figure out who he is, we will speak with him—_alone_—further. For now..."

Varian bristled before he snapped at Garrosh, "Tell them I'm going to be near Death's Overlook. The penguins will certainly be better company than this lot."

Garrosh snarled at him, but Varian mounted on the frostwyrm, who offered herself as a form of transportation, and a growl rumbled through her as her eyes glowed brightly.

"Try not to get yourself killed," Varian drawled.

Garrosh glared at him and called him something unkind as Varian took into the air, leaving the three behind. The wind whistled past his ears as the frostwyrm glided lazily on non-existent air currents.

'You really want to go to Death's Overlook?'

Varian jumped at the voice in his head before he pinpointed the speaker as the dragon he was riding. "It'll keep me near the Tournament but away from being a possible danger."

The dragon made a wide turn before she landed carefully on the slope between the cultists' encampment and the tournament grounds. Varian stepped down and sighed gustily.

_So close,_ he thought with uncomfortable hope.

He faced Death's Overlook, and a frown slowly formed on his face.

The cultists had a rather…unique energy signature. Most of the members were still alive, but due to the heavy influence of necromancy, it felt like they were part-undead, so they flickered on his sense strangely. The random spots of nothing were probably captured Crusaders or unlucky adventurers. However, a spot of nothing was traveling into the camp, and the strange thing was that the nothing felt…familiar.

Varian called his steed to him and mounted it before he was brought up short as semi-clawed hands grabbed his leg. He looked down and over to see a humanoid at his side, and it took him a moment to register that his frostwyrm had somehow assumed a female human form. Varian sighed and the frostwyrm gave him a wicked, slightly smug smile before she sat carefully behind Varian.

"Don't fall," he growled, and the frostwyrm's arms clasped around Varian's waist.

As he approached the Overlook, cultists prostrated themselves before him and begged his favor, which made him sneer in contempt. He hated that he was instantly recognizable as greater Scourge, but as the cultists didn't get in his way, he'd ignore it for the time being.

He made his way quickly to where he felt the nothing as a strange sense of urgency descended on him.

"Let go!"

Varian's eyes widened slightly and he picked up his pace until he came upon a small contingent of cultists who tried to subdue a rather feisty, if roughed-up, prince of Stormwind.

Varian snarled, which attracted the attention of the cultists and made any undead nearby flee.

He pulled up beside the cultists and loomed as he bristled in anger. The frostwyrm slid off the horse, her true nature apparent to those who were used to dealing with the undead dragons.

"He is mine," Varian stated, even if he wasn't sure the cultists understood.

"M-my Lord—" one of them started, obviously having recognized at least his livery.

"_Silence_," Varian commanded. "Give the boy to me."

"But—"

Varian's eyes narrowed and the frostwyrm snarled, which made the group cower.

Varian dismounted, took Anduin roughly from the grasp of the cultists, and pulled the boy to him.

Varian placed Anduin in the saddle of his horse before he swung up and caged his son between his arms.

"The Prince, he was meant—"

"If anyone bitches, tell them he was claimed by one of the Lich King's Chosen." Varian didn't know where the title came from, but it fell from his lips as easily as when he proclaimed himself King of Stormwind.

The title had an immediate effect, and the cultists desperately begged for Varian to spare their lives for even _questioning_ his authority.

Varian simply turned his horse away as he voiced a growl before he took off at a languid pace towards a secluded area he remembered, and the frostwyrm easily kept up. If anyone tried to follow him, his destination would look less…suspect.

_We don't wish to endanger Anduin_.

"Let me go!" Anduin protested once more, voice laced with barely-controlled panic.

Varian huffed, readjusted his hold on the boy, and tried to make the situation marginally more comfortable. He would have said something, but it appeared that only servants of the Lich King could understand him when he spoke.

_Or, until someone recognizes us—if what we've seen regarding Garrosh holds. _

"Who are you?" Anduin demanded sullenly as he gave up his struggle.

"No-one you need be afraid of," Varian replied, and he hoped that an answer might at least assuage _some_ fears.

"What?" Anduin asked and looked up and over his shoulder.

Varian sighed. "Nevermind."

"Where are you taking me?"

_It would be so much easier if he could understand us._

"First I'm taking you towards a safe spot to throw off anyone who may be following before going to the Tournament Grounds."

"The Tournament Grounds? But they're _that_ way!"

Varian frowned. "Did you understand anything else?"

"What?" Anduin asked as his body tensed.

_Strange…_

Varian turned a corner and waited for a few minutes in a cave's mouth as Anduin squirmed and muttered some swears that made Varian's eyebrows rise slowly.

_Where the nether did he learn _those? He wondered before he sighed softly. _People talk, and Anduin likes people. Damn, what else does my son know?_

Eventually Varian felt safe enough to leave the cave, although he pulled Anduin a little tighter against him so that the folds of his cloak covered his physical presence, if ever so slightly.

As the familiar flags appeared, he thought, _We might just start hiring adventurers and mercenaries to act as body-guards, if SI:7 does such a poor job of keeping track of the royal family._

The king's lips twitched in a small smile, and he wanted to run his fingers through his son's hair, but Anduin hadn't recognized him, and Varian didn't want Anduin to see how close he was to breaking his promise.

As he wanted to get Anduin as close to safety as possible, Varian rode onto the consecrated ground around the main Argent Crusade tent, which left his humanoid frostwyrm to sulk at the border. His horse shimmied once, and Varian had to grit his teeth against the _pain_ that raced through his body, but the steady stream of agony was easily adapted to.

He pulled up next to the construct, and the Crusaders nearby kept a careful watch on him, hands on their weapons.

Varian dismounted, then pulled Anduin off the horse carefully. Once Anduin was safely deposited on the ground the crusaders intervened between he and Anduin and moved to push Varian away.

Varian snarled, "Is that how you thank me for saving the prince of Stormwind?"

"It's true!" Anduin jumped in and Varian stared.

_He understood us._

"The cultists—the crazy people up there—they killed my escort and took me hostage," Anduin spoke quickly, even though it was obvious that he was reluctant to help someone who he couldn't entirely understand and who probably appeared terrifying to his eyes. "He h-helped me!"

"What's going on?"

Varian looked over to where Tirion was standing, and met his surprised look with a steady, proud one, as he hid just how much the holy energy hurt—even if it _did_ quiet Arthas' voice in his head.

"You're standing on consecrated ground," Tirion stated.

Varian's lips twisted in the mockery of a smile. "I am."

"How?"

Varian shrugged and twined his horse's reins through his fingers. "It doesn't matter. I bring the Prince to you."

There was a beat as it dawned on Tirion that they were engaged in conversation, although the surprise was only a small flicker across the man's visage, which was quickly replaced by an emotion Varian couldn't quite place.

"Thank you for saving Prince Anduin," Tirion said evenly, even though his posture was tense. "Now, if you wouldn't mind removing yourself from the grounds…?"

Varian's eyes narrowed as anger curled through him, even though he was well aware of the threat he posed. "Very well, Highlord," Varian growled and turned his horse away from the Crusaders, and placed his back to them a gesture of disdain. _He_ had no reason to fear the paladin—if he tried anything stupid, the Light wouldn't hurt too badly and may actually heal him slightly.

Varian started and stared blankly at the icy mountain range before him as he rode away, and his frostwyrm came up beside him, a frown of concern on her face.

_That's it,_ he thought._ I can tolerate the Light. I can control the undead—_any_ lesser undead, including frostwyrms. By the Light…_

Varian shifted in his seat on his horse before he spat a rather vile orcish curse. _Light, Arthas, I hope that you die a prolonged, agonizing death._

Varian found that he had stopped and glared in the direction of Icecrown Citadel, his hands tight on the reins of his steed.

'Sire.'

Varian jumped and looked down to the humanoid form of the frostwyrm, whose hand rested delicately on his leg.

"What?"

'You fight so hard. You fight so well. It is…different.'

Varian snorted and looked away. "It isn't enough. I'm _still_ Scourge."

The humanoid at his side disappeared to be replaced by her large, imposing draconic form. 'I still remember my time as a member of the Blue Dragonflight. I want to see if someone connected so closely to someone that I hate can break free of him.'

Varian smiled grimly. "I will. For the Alliance, for Stormwind, for my people, for my _son_, I will."

The dragon snorted in amusement before it settled down around him, and the blue energy in its empty eyes flickered to a strange green-tinged blue. Varian felt a tug on the power at his core that made him wince and rub a hand over his heart.

'Through you I am his. I want to see how this ends, Varian Wrynn.'

Varian shook his head and shifted his seat on his steed. "I will win."

_We must._

—

"Well, at least you bring _good_ news," Varian drawled as Garrosh sat down beside him and ravenously devoured rations that could be spared. "How are they going to go about finding the cure, though?"

"It was decided that you were the better candidate to work on, since your presence doesn't passively kill people," Garrosh muttered, self-hatred in his voice.

Varian hummed an absent reply and leaned back against the dragon that was curled around him. "I think it may also be because I'm easier on the eyes than you."

Garrosh snorted. "Bullshit. You're about as attractive as a ghoul."

"Better than a decaying vyrkul."

Garrosh's eyes narrowed, and the beginnings of a pleasantly heated argument were forming when a hesitant voice broke in.

"Excuse me?"

Varian looked over to the speaker and his nearly non-existent breath stilled for a moment in surprise.

"Prince Anduin," Garrosh acknowledged, _just_ managing to keep a sneer out of his voice.

"Overlord," Anduin replied, formal training obviously having taken effect. "May I speak with him?"

Garrosh frowned and looked briefly over at Varian. "You won't be able to understand him."

"But he will understand me, yes?"

Garrosh nodded slowly then stood. "He isn't great conversation anyway."

Varian called Garrosh something unkind as the orc walked away, who responded to the insult with a crude gesture.

Varian snorted in derision before he looked at Anduin.

"What do you wish to speak of?" Varian asked, and the boy shifted nervously on his feet.

"I wanted to thank you," Anduin said, guessing the question. "After my escort was murdered, I tried to fight back, but I didn't want to really kill anyone and I'm a horrible hand at weapons anyway."

Varian had to work hard to not smile.

"They were joking about all the terrible things that they would do to me, describing them in terrifying detail. I tried to escape, but I don't really know how to use the Light like that yet."  
Anduin took a deep breath, caught Varian's eyes, and obviously suppressed a shiver. "So, thank you for saving me."

Varian smiled softly. "It was my pleasure."

A flicker of unease passed over Anduin's face before he muttered, "I wish I could understand you."

"I wish you could, too," Varian replied.

An awkward silence hung in the air before Anduin tilted his head slightly and squinted at Varian. "Can I…erm, _may_ I…sit there?" he asked and gestured vaguely to an area beside Varian.

Varian was surprised, but took off his cloak and spread it on the ground beside him in a vain hope to spare Anduin some of the Icecrown cold.

The frostwyrm shifted her weight so that she was a comfortable distance away from Anduin once the prince had sat down, since he was obviously scared of her.

Anduin looked carefully at Varian and said, "Thrall and Tirion said that when they asked who you were, Garrosh and you gave different answers. They said that you two were speaking Scourge, and that the words and meanings are…how did they put it?…context and perception based. You call yourself one thing because you think of yourself as one person, but Garrosh called you something else because he thinks of you differently."

Anduin hesitated before he asked, "Could you tell me your name?"

Varian grimaced and looked at the rocky ice of Icecrown.

_We don't want to._

_We should._

"Please?"

"I can't," Varian replied, voice pained. "I _can't_ tell you."

"I mean, it's okay if you don't but…I just want to be able to tell people who saved me, rather than 'a Scourge-but-not-Scourge person.'"

Varian's lips twitched in amusement before he sighed and said, "I don't know what you'll hear. To me, it seems like I'm saying my normal name. I suppose that out of everyone I know, though, you're the one most entitled to hear it." Varian took a deep breath. "I'm not sure what I should call myself anymore, but I believe myself to be Varian Wrynn."

Anduin blinked and his jaw dropped, which made Varian slightly nervous.

"Dad?" Anduin whispered as he leaned in and his fingers traced the scars on Varian's face that were nearly his trademark.

Varian's heart came close to breaking. "I'm sorry. I've failed you."

He hadn't expected Anduin to fling his arms around him and cling to him, but Varian's knee-jerk reaction was to pull Anduin to him and hold him close, some raw part of him soothed by the contact.

"No, you haven't," Anduin insisted. "You wouldn't have saved me from the cultists, you wouldn't have spared the crusaders, you wouldn't _be here_ if had you had."

_Light, how did we get so lucky with him?_

Varian ran his fingers carefully through Anduin's hair and lightly, gently pressed his lips against his son's head.

_It can't have been too long, but _Light_ how I've missed him._

"You're not as cold as you used to be," Anduin murmured as he pulled back and placed his forehead against his father's.

Varian smiled faintly. "It's Icecrown. _Everything_ is cold, so you just don't feel it."

Anduin smiled back and said, "You look normal now. Well, except for your eyes." Anduin's fingers gently touched the skin beneath Varian's eyes. "They still glow."

"Garrosh's do, too, I hear."

Anduin nodded, then asked, "Dad, what happened?"

Varian sighed. "Do you remember a little while ago, when you were captured and taken here?"

Anduin nodded and sat down again as Varian still held onto him lightly. "Sometime during a fight, Arthas managed to embed some Scourge in me. Ever since then I've been doing my best to not become Scourge. Because I _never_ want to have you live knowing that your father is Scourge."

"That's why you were cold? That's why you desecrated the ground?"

"Yes."

"…what happened here to change you so much?"

Varian laughed bitterly. "In Stormwind, I was more human than Scourge—here, in Icecrown, I'm more Scourge than human."

"But you're _still_ human! You're still _alive_. So, so, we can find a way to fix this, definitely! I overheard Thrall and Tirion and Garrosh talking about finding a way to remove the Scourge. I can add weight to it—I'm only prince, yeah, but people _have_ to listen to me. At least a little bit."

Varian couldn't stop the smile that formed on his face and he kissed his son's forehead. "They will. Although I'm not sure if they'll believe you."

"Come with me, then. I've heard that you can stand on consecrated ground, but the only place that is consecrated is around the crusade's tent. Everywhere else is just Icecrown."

Anduin stood quickly and tugged on his father's hands so he stood as well.

As Anduin half-dragged him along, Varian asked, "How long as it been since I, ah, disappeared?"

"A little more than two days," Anduin replied.

Varian's eyebrows snapped up in surprise. "It feels longer."

Anduin shrugged. "But you're _here_, and we can fix things."

'We're not going to be on consecrated ground?'

Varian looked over his shoulder to the frostwyrm-turned-human who trailed behind them and nodded.

'Oh good, I can follow you then.'

The glee in her voice made him wary, but it was a secondary concern to how _nice_ it felt to have his son holding his hand and talking to him.

"How long did it take people to figure it out?"

Anduin looked up at his father. "Not too long. When they found the Quel'dorei unconscious and asked him what had happened once he was brought around, they found out that the mage who had taken you was a member of the Cult of the Damned—so it made sense you would be in Icecrown."

"Hold on…why are _you_ here?" Varian asked and disapproval crept into his voice.

Anduin looked sheepish. "Well, ah…erm…"

"Anduin."

"I _knew_ something bad was going to happen! So I, uh, kinda caught the next ship to Northrend after the one you left on."

"But someone _did_ come with you."

Anduin scratched the back of his neck self-consciously. "Um..."

Varian rubbed his eyes. "So, you stole away on a ship to Northrend, leaving _no_ royal in Stormwind, nor with any hints as to where you were going, _without_ anyone to protect you."

"People found me at Valiance Keep," Anduin half-protested. "And…they had guessed where I had gone anyway. They weren't as surprised as I thought they might have been…"

Varian sighed. _We are glad that he is more his mother's son than ours, but it appears that there is some of us in him…for good or ill is yet to be seen._

"But it all turned out okay, didn't it? I'm alright, we can find a way to get you un-Scourged and then we can go back to Stormwind, "Anduin said and smiled cautiously.

"You do know that you're in trouble when we get back," Varian said solemnly. "I told you to stay in Stormwind and attend to your studies and instead you're _here._"

"But—"

Varian shook his head. "You disobeyed a direct order."

"But—"

"No."

Anduin gave him an imploring look and Varian forced himself not to cave to the expression, although it was a close thing.

Varian stopped at the edge of the tournament grounds and looked at Anduin. "I don't want to put you in danger."

Anduin frowned. "You won't."

"Arthas is _here_," Varian said and pressed his free hand against his chest, where he could feel the dark, disgusting power eat away at his resistance. "I don't want to hurt you. Ever."

Anduin squeezed his hand and gave him a reassuring smile. "You won't."

Varian ran his fingers through his son's hair and shook his head. "Anduin. I'll stay right here. Go and try to convince Tirion or Thrall or whomever you deem appropriate to believe you. Consider it practice for the future."

Anduin scrunched his nose in distaste. "Politics."

"I sympathize," Varian drawled and nudged his son forward. He looked to his frostwyrm and said, "You go with him. Protect him."

She pouted and Anduin regarded her nervously, but the dragon-turned-humanoid eventually huffed a sigh. 'Very well, my lord.'

"She will keep you safe," Varian told his son, who nodded slowly.

"Don't go anywhere," Anduin half-commanded.

Varian smiled. "I won't."

_Hopefully all this will work out._

Arthas was blissfully quiet in his head, even if Varian's awareness of every undead in a _very_ large area was far more detailed than usual. Varian crossed his arms over his chest and sighed softly. He found that he wistfully wished for the company of his ghoul, but the thought of the ghoul reminded him of his _other_ traveling companion and the smile died into a scowl.

_Where _is_ he, the ass?_

Varian shifted on his feet before he rubbed his temple absently to try and calm a headache that had bloomed. He hadn't had headaches since he arrived in Icecrown—he assumed that the decreased blood-flow and increased intimacy with the undead was what had reduced the pain he had to endure.

_Why is it coming back now?_ He grumbled inwardly. _We were enjoying that._

Varian's breath hitched as his normally 5-mile radius awareness of the undead expanded to the whole of Icecrown, and thousands—nearly _millions_—of minds pressed against his, from higher-undead such as valkyries and Scourge death knights to the lowly ghouls with which he was familiar. He could feel the unholy energy that was part of the very land, could tell it was attempting encroachment on all surrounding areas: Sholazar Basin, Crystalsong Forest, Zul'Drak. The plague of undeath sought dominion over _everything_.

And he knew that he could control it. It would bend to his command, he could direct it, manipulate it, and use it to crush his enemies before he made them his own, eternally.

It brought a rush of pleasure, of _agony_, greater than any he had ever known, and he _hated_ it. Arthas was in his mind, his blood, his _soul,_ and it defiled him and made him claw at his head, as he sought confirmation of a physical world.

But it was too little, the memories of lingering touches and dark lust, of bright laughter and pure happiness flailing and failing before the onslaught of the concentrated effort of every scrap of the Lich King's power being brought to bear on him.

The last thing Varian registered before he was swallowed by a cold, dark energy was screaming in pain, rage, and despair.

_Anduin…!_


	9. Restoration

**Author**: Another chapter. This one is shorter and...I'm dubious about the quality. Garrosh and I still don't get along and the story is fighting me _when it's almost done._ Damnit. : / Oh, and there's sex. So, if you don't like smut that is alarmingly relevant to the plot...well, oops.

**Warnings: **Sex. Violence. Sex. Language. Did I mention sex?

**Disclaimer:** If I owned WoW, would I be writing fanfiction?

**Restoration**

Something was terribly wrong, and it had nothing to do with how damn _cold_ it had become.

Garrosh spat a potent curse as he pulled his cloak around him, and tried to find _some_ measure of warmth as he shivered violently.

It was then that a thought struck him—he could _feel_ the cold. He hadn't felt _cold_ since the last time he had been in Icecrown. It was a refreshing change of pace—it was nice not to feel like he had a constant fever—but also unpleasant because of the sudden temperature gradient.

A second later he registered that _he_ was no longer in his mind, that the hiss of whispers that drove him to distraction were entirely absent, replaced by a steady, pleasant quiet that was broken only by his own thoughts.

The next thing to dawn on him was that the gnawing, aching _need_ for life had been subdued to nearly nothing (the Scourge had become too much a part of him for it to vanish entirely) and he could no longer feel every mortal life in the tournament grounds pull on him and make him _crave_ the life-energy that he had somehow lost.

From what he could see, the drain was truly gone and his own life restored, since a distracted crusader passed by without even a glance in his direction.

_But, something isn't right,_ Garrosh thought warily._ It feels like Arthas just…gave up, but he _doesn't_ give up. Not from what I've seen or heard. Then why…?_

Garrosh turned and walked towards where he remembered Thrall being last as a strange kind of _dread_ curled through him. There were surprised exclamations from crusaders and members of the Horde as he passed, but he ignored them. He had better things to attend to.

Although he wasn't quite sure what the better things were. He simply knew he needed to see Thrall—for being younger than he, Thrall was more perceptive.

Luck was, for once, with him, as he turned a corner to nearly collide with Thrall.

"Garrosh?" Thrall said, obviously astonished.

"Something's wrong," Garrosh stated shortly.

Thrall frowned. "What?"

Impatience made Garrosh choke down a growl. Something wasn't right and it needed to be addressed _immediately_!

"Something is _wrong_ and I need your help figuring out what it is."

"Perhaps this is a conversation better held in private," Thrall said cautiously, and Garrosh had to work to tamp down an annoyed, anxious energy that made him want to hit something. But, Thrall was his Warchief and he had to pretend to listen _sometimes_, so he simply nodded_._

Garrosh was following Thrall when a semi-clawed hand clamped down on his forearm and another easily blocked his knee-jerk retaliatory punch.

Garrosh was surprised to see the humanoid version of the frostwyrm that had taken a liking to Varian, and she appeared on the verge of panic.

'You have to help him.'

"What?" Garrosh asked and frowned.

'My lord, he's been taken. The Lich King—he took away your power to use it against my lord. My lord is strong, but without you or his son nearby, he had no anchor but memories, and that wasn't enough. Please, even if you hate him, you have to help him!'

"Why should I?" Garrosh snapped. "Him being gone would remove an obstacle to the dominance of the Horde, would show how weak and…_evil_…humans are. The Alliance would be thrown into turmoil, leaving plenty of openings to exploit and control of Azeroth will be easy."

Something in him rebelled at the thought, though. If Varian fell and became nothing more than a slave to Arthas, then who would he have to hate? Who would Garrosh have to measure himself against, strive to be better than, and help him prove the superiority of the Horde? Who else was there that made him feel _alive_, who made his heart pound and adrenaline and strength run through his veins?

Who else could break him down and leave him feeling both cleansed and defiled?

_Damnit._

The undead dragon's softly glowing blue-green eyes bored into his and she gave him a tentative smile. 'You will.'

"No, I _won't_. I will be better off with him dead," Garrosh replied heatedly.

'You're just scared.'

Garrosh bristled. "Scared? Of Varian? Never!"

'Then you are _weak._'

Garrosh snarled and struck out at the humanoid-dragon again, who dodged the attack easily and bared her teeth at him.

'Perhaps what I've heard of you are wrong—you're nothing but a selfish little bitch!'

Garrosh's weapons were in his hands and the unholy magic that kept the dragon humanoid fluctuated.

"You know nothing, _Scourge_," Garrosh sneered as his body vibrated in fury.

'He helped you remain yourself, Garrosh Hellscream,' the dragon snarled. 'Will you abandon the man who is responsible for keeping you sane? Where is the honor in _that_?'

"_It is _you_ who are meaningless. You were _nothing_ before you came to Azeroth."_

"What do Scourge know of honor?" Garrosh growled. "He is my enemy—"

'Face it, orc—he is _important_ to you! You will not let him fall!'

Garrosh's hands were painfully tight on his weapons, as he glared back at the undead dragon. "If he's buckled to that piece of slime on the Frozen Throne, he isn't strong enough to be worth my time."

'So you're going to abandon him. Abandon the _one_ person who you've ever truly felt anything for.'

"I do _not_ feel anything for him! He is nothing to me."

The frostwyrm snarled. 'Stop deluding yourself! He is _everything_ to you.'

"_You were scared, weren't you? You ran away from dealing with the thing inside you—from _me_."_

"I hate him!"

'Wouldn't it feel _wrong_ to kill him when he's nothing but a puppet? No longer some_one_ but some_thing_?'

The idea of Varian as a _thing_ was inherently distasteful and made Garrosh balk, both physically and mentally. Varian wasn't a _thing_, he was too vivid, too much of a pain to be an _object_.

The frostwyrm shed the human disguise and resumed her draconic self. 'Come. We have little time to lose,' she said and her gaze met his.

There was a moment of brittle silence before Garrosh walked over to her, and she bent her neck to show him where it was best to sit.

"Garrosh, what are you doing?"

Garrosh looked down at his Warchief after he had mounted and said, "Something very stupid."

The frostwyrm roared her defiance and resolve and took off surprisingly smoothly as Garrosh held on tightly to strangely supple bone.

_I can't believe I'm doing this. I'm putting my ancestors to shame._

"Where are you taking me?" Garrosh grumbled, annoyed with himself and how the emotion he had steadfastedly ignored had driven him to actually _help_ the mortal he hated most.

'The Cathedral of Darkness. He still struggles, regardless of the Lich King's stranglehold on him. There is a ritual that can get beyond that, completely bind him. You are going to stop it—or reverse it—while I keep the cultists busy.'

A small smirk formed on Garrosh's face at the tone of her voice, regardless of her presumptions. "You're going to enjoy that."

'Oh, you have no idea.'

Garrosh grimaced and closed his eyes against the bitter wind.

_I hate him! Then why…_

_He would help me._

Garrosh blinked. _He _would_ help me._

The orc scowled. _I wish I could go back to _just_ hating him._

It was astonishing, how little time it took for them to descend on the Cathedral, and the frostwyrm roared her anger, bitterness, and _hate_. She clawed at the doors and swept out her wings and tail, which flung the cultists away while it also drew the attention of those within. She let out a blast of icy magic that froze the cultists who came out first and chilled those behind them, which distracted the cultists enough for Garrosh to dismount and enter the Cathedral.

The cavernous ceiling echoed and warped the sound of his steps in the same way it magnified the dragon's gleeful, spiteful roar, and sent a thrill of uneasiness through him. The chill he felt as he moved deeper into the structure was unnatural, and his vision eventually focused on a figure that stood before the main altar.

Garrosh came to a cautious stop and unsheathed his weapons as the person turned around to face him.

The man's skin was too pale to be natural and pulled tightly against proud features that only served to make the visage look almost skeletal. An odd gray-blue color lined his nose, mouth, and eyes, and the scars that crossed his face seemed more savage than having resulted from weaponry and stood out starkly against the pallor. Dark, matte black hair framed his face and hung loosely down his shoulders and back.

Familiar armor had been rendered a foreign one, gold-edged blue darkened into silver-bordered black, warm, deep brown paled into sickly gray. Every lion's maw was now open in a roar of rage—or perhaps desperation—but that was all the emotion evident on the person.

Since he had arrived in Azeroth, Garrosh had come across a number of individuals that were under the control of someone else's magic. Once one knew the subtle signs, they were easy to pick out. One thing Garrosh had learned was that something was wrong with their eyes. There was always a muted turmoil, a quiet, desperate cry for help.

What Garrosh saw in Varian's eyes—for the person could be no-one but he, Garrosh would be able to recognize him no matter what disguise he wore—made Garrosh's blood run cold.

There was nothing.

Inside the bright blue, misted depths, he could see _nothing_. There was no recognition, no thought, no understanding. It was a yawning emptiness, a cold, detached _lack_.

Varian's body existed, but he wasn't there.

Garrosh jumped a little and fell into a battle stance when someone else spoke, which drew his attention away from Varian.

"**I had hoped that Anduin or Tirion would come to attempt a rescue, but I suppose you'll do.**"

"You are a weakling and a coward, Arthas," Garrosh snarled as rage rose in him at the sight of the man who had made his life _miserable_.

While Garrosh couldn't see his face, it was obvious that Arthas was amused by his reaction.

"**He is mine now, orc, and there is **_**nothing**_** you can do.**"

Garrosh replied with a low, menacing growl before he attacked.

"I will not let him exist as your pawn_!"_

Garrosh snarled when Varian intercepted him, and Arthas walked unhurriedly away as Varian pushed Garrosh back.

_Damn,_ Garrosh thought sullenly as he parried a savage strike.

Garrosh felt as if he was fighting a stranger. Varian no longer fought with an odd mixture of maneuvers drawn from all the races he had fought against or beside, but purely human tactics. There was no longer the dirty fighting, the little tricks, but a finesse and unwavering focus that made Varian no less dangerous.

Garrosh ducked beneath a strike and yelled in surprise and pain as another sword bit into his side, the blade barely turned away by his armor.

_Shit,_ Garrosh thought and swept Varian's feet from beneath him, which gave him time to get away as the human fell correctly. Garrosh touched his side and felt a small trickle of blood well from beneath the plate. While the wound wasn't deep, Garrosh could tell that it would be an annoying, constant throb.

_Dual-wielding, huh?_ Garrosh thought distantly and belatedly noticed the second sword in Varian's other hand—it wasn't whatever he normally used, the sword that was actually two-in-one, _that_ was in his main hand. The new sword was something that was obviously Scourge make, and he could see his blood tainting its edge.

_This will be interesting._

Garrosh readjusted his grip on his axes before he voiced the war-cry that was trademark of his bloodline and threw himself at Varian.

Varian blocked the charge, and Garrosh was ready for the second sword, and parried the strike. Garrosh was distantly chagrined to think that, by fighting against Varian, he was fighting _for_ him and that he was fighting for the king was mildly demeaning.

_Helping a _human…

Garrosh could dimly hear the frostwyrm's roars of pain and joy, as she obviously kept the cultists busy, and the violence that hung in the air was infectious.

Varian executed a move that Garrosh knew was possible for those of the highest caliber of warrior, but had never thought to see it _done_, let alone against him, and found himself thrown back into a pillar, and his armor barely protected him from something that should have gutted him.

Garrosh pushed away from the column and turned aside one of Varian's blades before he slammed his elbow into the chink between Varian's breastplate and shoulder-armor.

A wince of pain flashed across Varian's face as he staggered back, but Garrosh hadn't entirely hit his mark, so while Varian was obviously hurt, the ligaments hadn't been torn as Garrosh had intended, since Varian was able to parry his next strike without a flicker of discomfort.

Garrosh dodged a sword-stroke that should have removed his arm and put some distance between he and Varian. He had to hurriedly throw Varian off balance through a rather forceful parry to get the breathing room he wanted.

Garrosh shook the sweat out of his eyes, only mildly alarmed to feel blood trickling down his face before he was forced once more to defend himself.

Varian had been fast before—it was what made him such a challenging opponent—and it seemed as if being undead had only augmented that particular strength. Garrosh knew that he was physically stronger than Varian, but it was hard to make use of his abilities when Varian kept on slipping just out of his grasp. Garrosh could feel that while the wounds he had received were not deep, their placement was strategic and sapped Garrosh of his mobility and left him vulnerable.

However, Garrosh knew that Varian wasn't unscathed. The damage Garrosh had inflicted was deeper, the wounds struck through armor, and he knew that Varian was suffering strains, sprains, bruises, and breaks, but would only feel them once he had been pulled back from the Lich King's thrall.

Because, damnit, Garrosh was going to free him, and that knowledge was sickening.

_Why do I care?_ He asked himself as the tip of one of Varian's swords ghosted too close to his neck for comfort. _He is my enemy. I loathe him, but…_

The 'but' bothered him, but there were better things to do than ponder why and when Varian had become such a part of him.

Fighting was always a high, and Garrosh felt viciously alive. To face someone who knew what they were doing, who matched and challenged his skill, took his breath away. It pushed him to find all the techniques he had forgotten from neglect—as that the majority of people were weaker than he—and remember how to execute them. It had been far too long since he had met someone on equal footing who had the same kind of training as he.

_I should probably look into learning the Arms specialty techniques. I don't like him having any kind of advantage over me._

The fight felt surreal in its familiarity—it hadn't been too long ago that they had fought in similar surroundings with similar intensity.

_That was when I was trying to save Thrall and he…he was trying to save _Anduin_._

A thought dawned on him as Varian's empty blue eyes regarded him with an eerie detachment that made Garrosh's skin crawl.

_He said that if he ever fell too far, Anduin would be able to pull him out. He's _very_ far gone…although I suppose it's worth a try._

Garrosh charged and managed to maneuver so he was too close to Varian for the man to get a good, solid sword-stroke in that would disable him.

"Varian!" Garrosh hissed. "Listen to me!"

There was no response and the king's eyes were still painfully empty.

"Remember your promise," Garrosh said before he was thrown away by a surge of unholy power that skittered across his skin and made it burn in agony, and both of Varian's swords slammed into his chest, which made Garrosh stagger, two parallel cuts gouged into his armor.

At the mention of a promise there was a flicker of _something_ in the emptiness of Varian's eyes, the first fires of recognition that kindled a spark of something that was terrifyingly like hope within Garrosh.

_He isn't gone._ The evidence made him oddly relieved._ He's far too much of an ass to give in to something like the Lich King anyway._

"You made a promise to _your son,_" Garrosh said as he turned aside a slash and responded with one of his own. "You promised that you would never become Scourge."

The smallest of pained looks passed Varian's face, and Garrosh felt a smug surge of strength rush through him. "You promised him that you would _never_ serve Arthas."

Varian's attacks hitched, but the decline in intensity didn't equate the same in skill, which kept Garrosh from getting through as he would have wished. He knew—he just _knew_—that touch would help. It had before, and it would again.

"You promised Anduin," Garrosh said and the _name_ made Varian shiver and voice a strangled sound somewhere between a growl of defiance and a cry of desperation. One of Varian's swords dropped from his hands so to claw at his head, and a grimace of pain formed on his features.

That was enough of a break that Garrosh once again invaded Varian's personal space and managed to relieve Varian of his other weapon before pulling him close.

"Anduin needs you," Garrosh whispered, and the human shuddered violently.

_So close…_

He tangled his fingers in the thick strands of Varian's hair, pulled his head back slightly, and purred, "And I haven't paid you back for that time on the glacier, yet."

Varian voiced a growl that was equally parts disgust and want and it inexplicably made Garrosh smirk.

Garrosh's hold was clumsy enough that Varian managed to get free of it relatively easily, and sent Garrosh flat onto his back, but the blue light in Varian's eyes had dimmed slightly, a sign that Varian _was_ still existent, and had begun to break through.

Varian picked up his customary sword as emotion slowly began to evidence on his face, which also betrayed that Arthas' control was starting to slip.

Garrosh smirked slightly as a plan evolved in his head. He remembered quite clearly how Arthas' voice had been _gone_ after he and Varian had sex, and he had a feeling that such an…activity…might drive Arthas away entirely—Varian was bound even closer to the Lich King now, so it was possible that what Varian experienced, Arthas experienced (at least in part), and Garrosh was certain that having sex with an orc was probably high on the list of things Arthas would like to avoid.

So it _might_ work.

And he wasn't as adverse to the idea as he had thought he would—should—be.

Garrosh charged, and Varian easily blocked the strike, not bothering with the Scourge-sword.

_I just need to get close and disarm him. It won't be too hard to make him submit after that._

Garrosh recalled clearly how Varian had shivered, how he had choked down a number of moans, when Garrosh had been in control of his body. It had been thrilling and intriguing then, and that hadn't changed. It had been disgusting to be with a _human_…and it was humiliating, how badly he wanted to be with Varian again.

There had been something about the feel of Varian's skin, of how his cool touch had quelled the fever that had persisted within him, that was intoxicating. Varian's scent was foreign and repugnant even as it drew Garrosh to want to taste the man's skin, to see his blood run and know that _he_ had brought the _leader of the Alliance_ to his knees.

Garrosh was mildly annoyed that in the pause as they had circled each other warily, Varian's eyes were misting bright blue again, although there was a small but visible amount of strain on his features.

_Damn. Nothing can ever be easy._

Garrosh charged, and the fight began in earnest once more.

The fight had become more familiar, Garrosh catching glimpses of a technique he had encountered before, of a pattern of strikes that he had defended against previously. While it didn't make matters any easier—Varian was still damnably fast—it was an indication that Varian fought a mental battle as his body was directed by another.

Garrosh missed a strike as Varian ducked beneath his swing and cursed mentally at the rather obvious opening he had left for Varian to take advantage of.

Only, he didn't.

Garrosh smiled fiercely. _Arthas isn't the same caliber of warrior that Varian is. _

Garrosh's belief in Arthas' ineptitude was cemented when Varian was unwise enough to charge in close enough to play to Garrosh's strength, and Garrosh immediately locked their weapons. There was a flicker of strain and annoyance as Varian struggled against Garrosh's greater physical strength and weight, but Garrosh managed to disarm Varian—he had to sacrifice his own weaponry, but in such close quarters it mattered little. Garrosh dragged Varian flush against him and pinned one of Varian's arms to his side as the man's other came up fast enough to brace against Garrosh's chest, although pain flickered across Varian's face. Garrosh wasn't sure what he had hurt, but it was enough so that Varian was unable to keep his weight entirely on his own feet. Garrosh smiled malignantly and tangled his fingers in Varian's hair before jerking Varian's head back, which provoked a yell from the human.

"Struggle," Garrosh purred. "You will lose."

Varian snarled, and the sound was entirely Varian, even if his eyes still misted mostly-blue.

Garrosh growled in pain and his grip spasmed in surprise when Varian used his free hand to deliver a blow to Garrosh's side that hit something sensitive. Varian stomped on Garrosh's instep before he shoved Garrosh away, his teeth bared in a silent snarl.

_It's not over yet. Not until I get him to submit._

Garrosh moved between Varian and his weapon, which made the glowing eyes narrow in annoyance. The further resurgence of emotion was a good sign and one that made Garrosh grin in feral pleasure.

"What, too weak to fight me hand-to-hand?" Garrosh jibed.

Varian bristled, but said nothing. It was unlike the man to be so quiet, so Garrosh figured that something Arthas had done to him prevented speech. Garrosh found it oddly unnerving that Varian couldn't respond to his taunts.

Nonetheless, it allowed Garrosh to focus more, to watch and anticipate Varian's movements. He mostly couldn't, as he did not understanding human physiology quiet yet, although he had a feeling he would understand it _intimately_ given time.

Varian's speed once again served to make Garrosh strain to keep up. Most orcish hand-to-hand techniques were meant to take advantage of sheer brute strength—it wasn't necessary to be mobile when your opponent was unconscious from a single punch—so having to adapt to someone who moved quickly, regardless of how Varian's leg seemed to drag a little bit, was a challenge.

A lucky shot sent Varian staggering back, obviously breathless with pain, and Garrosh pressed his advantage. He felt something give in Varian's arm when he twisted it violently behind his back and Varian cried out before he escaped Garrosh's hold with a maneuver that left Garrosh temporarily seeing stars. Varian held his arm against him and snarled, and Garrosh could see the man's eyes clear even more.

Nonetheless, it appeared that Arthas still had a substantial control over Varian, since while though Varian was obviously hurting, his energy never seemed to falter. Garrosh found that even with one arm incapacitated and his body beginning to fail, Varian was still a formidable opponent. Garrosh was tiring and slowing, while Varian still seemed to have the endurance of the undead. Garrosh found himself making stupid mistakes that allowed Varian opportunities he shouldn't have, ones that were obvious enough that even Arthas could see them, and suffered for it.

Garrosh grit his teeth as he recovered from an attack that made his legs shake with pain. _I will not lose to you._

Varian yelled in surprise when his lower back hit something, and Garrosh didn't waste the distraction. He quickly moved and pushed Varian down onto the surface behind him—an altar. Garrosh stepped in towards Varian and pushed the man's legs apart using his body, which made Varian snarl in indignation. It was an awkward position for Varian and kept Garrosh safe from any retaliatory kicks.

"Submit," Garrosh growled and faintly-misting blue eyes narrowed in annoyance.

However, with one arm not behaving like it should and the other pinned to the black stone by Garrosh's grip, it was only a token protest. Varian was beaten and they both knew it—even though how the intensity of light in Varian's eyes fluctuated said that Arthas wasn't convinced yet. Varian's hands were curled tightly into fists and his body shuddered as he obviously fought against Arthas.

Garrosh took advantage of the inner turmoil and unclasped Varian's belt and pushed it aside to the floor.

Varian immediately ceased to struggle and froze, whether from anticipation, disgust, or both Garrosh wasn't certain.

"I told you I was going to get back at you for the time on the glacier."

Garrosh was surprised both by the rough purr of his own voice and when Varian chuckled darkly, even if the blue light in his eyes was still vibrant. The needy heat in the sound made Garrosh still a shiver and his cock twitched in anticipation.

_He wants it._

The fingers of Varian's injured hand picked at the clasps of Garrosh's chest armor, which made Garrosh growl in appreciation.

Garrosh kept Varian's good hand pinned to the dark stone of the altar while his free hand found what secured Varian's armor. His fingers slipped on and over sluggishly bleeding wounds as he sought out the clasps on the man's armor and he snarled in pain when Varian simply _yanked_ on the straps of Garrosh's armor, the snaps buckling and coming off, and his chest piece clattered to the floor.

Garrosh's hand tightened on Varian's good wrist, and he could feel that the pressure put strain on Varian's body, although there was never a flicker of pain on Varian's face—only a steadily dimming light in his eyes.

Garrosh responded to the rough treatment by dragging his mail covered fingers slowly down Varian's body, leaving tiny scratches as marks of his passing. Varian's eyes narrowed and his body instinctively flinched away from the pain, but it didn't stop the wanderings of his wounded hand, didn't prevent Varian from finding all the wounds that he had inflicted and aggravating them, which left Garrosh shivering in pain and a perverse kind of pleasure.

It was _good_, to feel Varian bruising beneath his fingers, to watch and hear the breathless gasps of _want_ and _hate_. Garrosh caught Varian's hand once it had picked away at Garrosh's belt, and the armor fell unheeded to the cold stone floor. Dimly-glowing eyes met his, and Garrosh smiled slowly, the expression vicious, which provoked a dark chuckle from Varian.

Every strategic touch, every precisely placed pain, left Garrosh feeling violated and _wanted._ Every sound he drew from Varian as he pressed against him and manipulated his body made Garrosh ache. Armor was discarded viciously, casually, and when skin bruised skin, it felt better than anything Garrosh had felt before. Hands that he would have usually disdained as far too small and fragile nimbly found all the places that made Garrosh flinch and moan and control the body beneath him.

It was intoxicating and his erection strained painfully against his armor as a different kind of bloodlust descended on him, a _craving_ to have Varian as _his_, and his alone.

After Garrosh had removed enough of Varian's lower-body armor to free the human's erection and offer Garrosh his body, he realized that he had only a vague idea of what to do. What he knew of sex he knew through hear-say and experience, and most Mag'har didn't speak of the kind of illicit _thing_ he had with Varian. It just…wasn't done.

So, he had to work off instinct and, to his disgust, what Varian had done to him.

Garrosh pressed two of his fingers down on Varian's lips and the man's mouth opened enough for Garrosh to slip his fingers in. Garrosh was surprised when Varian groaned slightly before he began to suck on Garrosh's fingers.

The feel of Varian's tongue twining around his fingers made Garrosh shiver and release his grip on Varian's good hand to fumble at what kept his own lower-body armor secure, Varian's hands aiding and hindering the process. It was an acute relief when his erection was freed, and even the frigid air did nothing to tame it.

Garrosh withdrew his fingers to a small sound of protest and found Varian's anus before pressing the first spit-slickened digit in.

Varian cried out in something that was an odd combination of pain, pleasure, and…relief. Garrosh swallowed when Varian pushed against his finger and the promise of claiming the man, of moving _inside_ him and making what felt so strangely cold come alive again made his breath hitch.

Still, Varian had been oddly considerate of Garrosh's body, so he would do the same.

The choked sound of _need_ that Varian voiced and how the man's hands pressed insistently against Garrosh's back when Garrosh inserted his other finger made Garrosh shudder.

_He wants this._

"G-Garrosh…"

Even though the _loathing_ in the voice was unmistakable, so was the demand that laced the growl of his name.

_No, he wants _me.

Garrosh withdrew his fingers to a snarl of protest that was cut off by Garrosh pressing his cock into Varian's body.

Varian moaned in ecstasy, and pressed Garrosh into him faster than Garrosh would have gone, as the sensation was beyond his experience. Garrosh had been with females before, but it was _nothing_ compared to how it felt to be in Varian.

There was something warped about it, more than Varian simply being male and human. What they were doing was a mockery of something sacred, having Varian mostly-naked and supine on the dark altar in the Cathedral, clawing at him in need and _hate_ as Garrosh moved in him.

Garrosh shivered at the sounds he was pulling from the man beneath him and groaned at how skin that had felt so cold warmed beneath his touches, at how color and life were slowly returned to Varian.

Varian arched into one of his thrusts and Garrosh's breath hitched as he was pushed farther into Varian—_oh, spirits, _into _Varian_—and it was so wrong to feel so _good_.

Garrosh had unconsciously sped up, and his thrusts made Varian's entire body move, but Varian met every thrust and moved against Garrosh, willingly burying Garrosh deep in his body.

However, there was something _else_ there. It was in why Varian had accepted the invasion and seemed to relish it, in how all Garrosh had been able to think about was how to get back at Varian for the time on the glacier, even in how they had agreed to travel together regardless of their history of mutual hatred.

Garrosh didn't want to name it, because then he would have to recognize it, and _that_ was something he could do without.

"Garrosh…" Varian groaned, and the one word held a plethora of emotions that made Garrosh swallow a moan as the man came against him.

Varian's eyes opened and met Garrosh's, and Garrosh was oddly smug at the lust and pain and satiation in a gaze that no longer glowed. There was something forbidden in the small smirk that formed on Varian's lips, a promise of torture and addiction and pleasure so intense it burned, and it left Garrosh breathless. It was a _knowing_ expression, and said that, somehow, Garrosh had been claimed by Varian as much as Garrosh had gained possession of him.

Garrosh was terrified to find that he didn't mind at all.

It was in the realization of possession, in Varian's strangely seductive smirk and low, wanton moan, and the warmth that enveloped him that made Garrosh cum, his entire body convulsing with pleasure as he snarled Varian's name.

For it was undeniable, who made him feel the way he did. Sex had never been so good with anyone else, which was somewhat horrifying.

Garrosh pulled out and was intrigued by the flicker of both pain and disappointment that flashed across Varian's face. However, the aches that resulted from what it had taken to be able to take Varian had begun to assert themselves, and Garrosh wanted to be _out_ of the Cathedral. He could no longer hear the dragon battling, but it was a content silence, which meant that she had won or at least accomplished what she had set out to do.

Garrosh backed away as Varian sat up slowly, and Garrosh was half-amused to find that the man was taking deep, almost desperate breaths of air and sweating profusely. Garrosh figured that after being so cold and dead for so long, it probably felt like he had stepped into the noon sun of Tanaris.

Garrosh flung Varian's cloak to him, who caught it effortlessly, obviously aware of his surroundings.

A comfortable, satiated silence hung between them as they searched, retrieved, and secured their armors, although Garrosh could see that the bodily demands of being alive again were catching up on Varian, not to mention the injuries Garrosh had inflicted.

"I'm sick of this place," Varian growled, his voice carefully controlled as he made his way towards the entrance. Garrosh fell into easy step beside him, since then man couldn't walk terribly quickly anyway.

'Have fun?' the frostwyrm asked cheerfully as she picked remnants of cultists out from between the bones of her claws, shredded remains and frozen droplets of blood surrounding her.

Varian coughed to cover his embarrassment as Garrosh scowled.

"You say _nothing_ of that to anyone," Varian commanded as they came up beside her.

The dragon affected amused well. 'No-one but you and the orc can understand me, my lord. I wouldn't be able to tell anyone even if I wanted to.'

"But you don't want to anyway?" Varian inquired.

'I remember the social norms and prejudices of the ground-bound species,' she drawled. 'It would ruin both of you if anyone found out.'

She offered her back to them both and Garrosh swore he saw one of the blue-green lights flicker as if in a wink. 'Although I imagine that there will be some questions asked anyway.'

"Do I appear to be who I am?" Varian asked and Garrosh was dismayed that he steadied the human as Varian settled into a seat. It meant he _cared_ about Varian, and he didn't.

'My lord, you've always looked like the King of Stormwind to me. We'll simply have to wait and see.'

Garrosh found a seat as well and the jolt of take-off pushed Varian back against him—and his arms instinctively closed around the king, which was, again, annoying, since it meant he cared for Varian _and_ _he didn't._

_I've lost my mind. Spirits, I'm so glad neither my father nor Greatmother can see me now._

Varian's weight against him was strangely pleasant, though, and Garrosh had to fight down the odd desire to twine his fingers through Varian's loose hair. He wanted to pull Varian closer, feel the warmth of a renewed body against him and—

Garrosh kicked himself mentally and scowled at nothing.

_I _just_ had sex with him and it's only made me want him _more._ This is ridiculous!_

Still, how relaxed Varian was against him was more than just a result of afterglow, exhaustion, or pain—there was an odd measure of trust, and Garrosh was dismayed to know that he wouldn't betray the unconscious gesture.

_I worked far too hard to get him back…although then there's the question of _why.

It took a supreme effort to still his hands, especially at the smug, amused, irritatingly seductive look Varian gave him over his shoulder.

_He _knows_ I want this…_thing._ And the damned human is obviously too pleased to make me feel something other than abject hatred._

Although there was also relief there—relief that it wasn't just he who had gone insane.

'We're coming up to the grounds. I suggest that you stop cuddling and look like the leaders that you are.'

"I am _not_—" Varian began as Garrosh snarled, and the implication of _affection_ between the two of them made Varian sit up straight, regardless of how his body visibly hurt.

_Spirits, how am I going to explain _him? _The scum can at least pull rank—I have Thrall to answer to and people _talk_._

Garrosh glared at the approaching ground. _Damn._

The frostwyrm landed with surprising delicacy, and Garrosh slid off before Varian, and anticipated that the man's body would give out exactly like it did, which made him catch Varian.

Garrosh was again struck with how _good_ it felt to have Varian against him, but forced his expression to show nothing but disdain as Varian growled curses in Orcish and Common while he struggled to recover his dignity.

"Father!"

Garrosh looked over and saw Anduin coming at a sprint to them before colliding with his father, and spoke with him quietly and quickly, Common slurring together in a blur that Garrosh couldn't entirely understand. A strange sense of jealousy and yearning ran through Garrosh at how the two interacted, which he quickly squashed.

"Garrosh?"

Garrosh looked over to Thrall, who was approaching at a more sedate pace as he eyed the frostwyrm that loomed over them protectively.

"Thrall," Garrosh acknowledged and gave the smallest of bows possible while still being respectful.

"What is he to you?" Thrall asked once Garrosh had relinquished his hold on Varian to a number of high elves and a human healer as Anduin fluttered around them like a nervous bird.

Garrosh looked back to his Warchief as Thrall performed what healing magic he could to keep Garrosh together until a more skilled healer than he was available.

Garrosh was silent, unsure how to explain what exactly Varian was to him. There really were no words to describe the loathing, the need, the lust, and the kinship that bound them to each other. They were still enemies—and quite bitter ones at that—but there was also something _else_ there that defied definition.

"I can make the request an order."

"I _hate_ him," Garrosh answered simply. It was the truth, but there were so many _other_ things that he couldn't say.

_I _crave_ him. He has dug beneath my skin and taken up residence in my head. And the worst part is I don't _mind_ having him there._

"But you're willing to help him."

"We survived Arthas only through using each other. It would have been wrong for me to let him become Arthas' puppet when I'm free."

Thrall was obviously surprised. "_He_ was the one you were traveling with?"

Garrosh nodded shortly and glared sullenly in the general direction of where Varian had been.

"And you didn't kill each other."

"Obviously," Garrosh replied as a true healer took inventory of what Garrosh had injured.

"How? _Why_?" Thrall half-demanded, clearly baffled by behavior that was so out of character.

Garrosh was silent for a moment before he said, "Traveling with him was a better option than being enslaved to the Lich King."

"There ya go, Overlord," the troll said and patted Garrosh's forearm almost condescendingly before he looked at Thrall. "I canna cure his stupid, though."

Garrosh snarled and Thrall didn't bother to hide a small smile as the troll sauntered away.

"Come, Garrosh. If I've had enough of Icecrown, I'm sure you have."

Garrosh followed his Warchief and continued to try to figure out what exactly Varian meant to him, but he had a sinking feeling he'd never have a solid answer as to _why_ he needed the king like he did.

_Stupid human._


	10. Nothing Ever Really Ends

**Author**: Well, lovelies. This is it. The last chapter. I have tried for nearly 2 months to expand this chapter, but I'm never going to be happy with anything else I tack on to explain some things I allude to. Thanks for reading!

**Disclaimer**: Nope, still not mine.

**Chapter 10**

Spring had descended on Stormwind. The morning air was pleasantly cool and soft, and the scents of freshly baked bread and a waking city glided along a gentle breeze. The stones of the Keep held the cool temperature of the night, and Varian only wished he could enjoy the weather more. As it was, he was required to focus on the matters of state before him, regardless of how much he wanted to strap on his lighter, unrecognizable plate armor and escape into the human territories for a few days to get away from all the pressures that had been building in his life.

_There have been rumors before, sightings by adventurers with no substance,_ Varian thought and rubbed his chin pensively as he stood in his throne-room and pondered the report he had received the moment he had walked into the throne room._ Silverpine has always been overrun with worgen, the creations of a madman, but this seems…different._ _The worgen actually _communicated_ with Tyrande. It—she—was well-spoken and carried a thick Gilnean accent even though no longer human. I wish I could have met her, but Tyrande wouldn't deliberately lie to me, not about something this important._

Varian shifted on his feet, uneasy. _What does this mean? That worgen could have been an anomaly. Perhaps I should send my own agent. I'll send a message to SI:7 to find someone who isn't an agent of theirs to infiltrate Gilneas. But, the wall is still impassible…how to get them into Gilnean waters without engaging the thrice-damned Forsaken?_

Varian could feel the beginnings of a headache stirring behind his eyes, so he took a covert deep breath and he pushed away the pain.

The day was still young.

Unfortunately.

"Father?"

Varian looked over to his son and gave him a smile. "Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

Varian shook his head slightly. "I'm fine. I have a meeting with the Battlemasters, the Grand Admiral and Officer Mithras soon, and the day has just begun."

Anduin frowned and was about to say something when the aforementioned dwarf approached and gave Varian a brisk salute. "My Lord."

Varian nodded and looked at Anduin. "Do you want to participate in planning?"

Anduin's eyes lit up.

Varian felt a little bad about so obviously derailing his son's concerns, but he justified it as the boy needing to see how the kingdom was faring. Anymore Anduin was consumed with his studies, which Varian didn't entirely mind. He took quiet joy in how _strong_ his son was becoming. While he was obviously still a novice, even Varian could feel a depth to his power—it would take a lot to tire out his son.

The two of them entered the War Room in his Keep to review where the Horde was known and speculated to be, what casualties were on both sides, and what the latest intelligence was.

While some places, like the Eastern Plaugelands, had been taken control of by Tirion and his minions, and therefore was more-or-less a neutral zone, there were still places that were decidedly Horde territory.

_At least Outland has more-or-less resolved itself. Illidian, or whoever that male was, has been defeated along with that insane demon-magic guzzling high elf who attached himself to the Kaldorei. Now all that remains is helping the draenei rebuild their homes in that world…and keeping the _other_ natives from undoing the good that we've managed to accomplish._

"Sir Fardale, how are things looking in the conflict zones?" Varian asked and looked over at the man, who saluted him before turning to the map before him.

"Inconclusive, my Lord. The Horde is regretfully persistent—they won't let any territory go."

Lady Devay nodded and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before waving her hand over the map, segmenting the large display into smaller ones with statistics beside each miniaturized map. "I've done some analysis, sire, and have some potential plans to win and _keep_ these battle-grounds."

"I am listening," Varian said and the woman brought the map of Ashenvale forth and focused on an area of particularly heated conflict.

Varian listened intently as each point of conflict was examined and debated, but was aware of his son growing bored.

_He has to learn, but there's no need to torture him with things he has no interest in and doesn't understand. _

"Perhaps we can discuss these matters latter, my Lady. I think it might be better to look into the state of our kingdom and contested territories?" Varian said when a lull in planning was reached.

The Lady nodded slightly, obviously annoyed at the change, but willing to acquiesce.

Varian looked over the map of the Eastern Kingdoms, and his eyes traced the trade routes that were vital to Stormwind and her people.

"A neutral area is lined by a yellow border, Horde is red, Alliance is blue, contested is purple," Varian told his son, who was now looking intently at the map and listening to the debating around them.

Varian sighed silently, glad that he was being ignored after he had shifted the topic—afterall, he wasn't expected to be cognizant of trade routes, statistics, and diplomatic policies, even though he _did_ happen to read all the reports that came in. Just because he was more warrior than diplomat didn't mean he was stupid.

He turned his attention back to the map and began a mental inventory of his own.

_I _must_ focus on my people. Light, what to do?_

Varian wanted to rub his eyes in frustration, but he had to keep decorum, lest people think he weak.

_Well, at least I no longer have the Defias to worry about._

_No, instead I have an abundance of people who are flooding Westfall due to the taxes that were necessary to keep the ventures in Outland and Northrend supplied. _

Varian scowled at the map. _The drought in Westfall and the pillaging have left the major farmland struggling to produce grain—produce anything, really. Redridge isn't farmland, it's too rocky—and the territory is crawling with Blackrock orcs, so I can't set up any solid mining operations. That venture wouldn't last for long anyway, since those kinds of resources can be depleted._

_Duskwood _still_ can't be cleansed of whatever evil has seeped into its land. Any wood from logging the area is warped and leaves those handling it haunted or ill. Nothing can be built with it. Maybe I could recruit some druids or shaman to take a thorough look at the place. Perhaps they can heal or cleanse the land or somesuch, since paladin and priests have had such astounding successes. _

Varian shifted on his feet and his eyes unfocused as he thought. _Elwynn. Those stupid kobolds have to be completely uprooted to allow the mines to be used again, and those damned murlocs have to be disposed of. Thankfully, many an adventurer seems to have a vendetta against them, so a large enough reward will probably be incentive to kill them all and find their eggs so that they can no longer exist in the lakes. It wouldn't be good to increase logging, though, as the endeavor is working at full capacity as it is._

Varian rested a hand gently on the hilt of his sword. _Would expansion into other territories be wise? The conflict in Kalimdor over natural resources and territory is heated enough that I can do without that same magnitude of contestation in the Eastern Kingdoms._

Varian sighed inwardly. _People have suggested the Western Plaugelands. _Had he not been in public, a wry smile would have formed on his face. _To think that humans would be attempting to take back Lordaeron. Well, it's an idea. The Argent Dawn and Cenarion Circle have made significant progress in the Western one. Attempting to settle the Western Plaguelands would also be a step in pushing the Horde out of the Eastern Kingdoms—I would be hedging them into just Tirisfal and Silverpine. However, the Eastern Plaugelands is still far too corrupt for any attempt at settlement. Still too seeped with the evil _he_ spread._

The brief memory of Arthas sent a spike of utter _loathing_ through Varian that he hid only through practice.

Varian took a quiet, deep breath. _So, the Western Plaugelands is where I could relocate some of the dislocated inhabitants of my territories. Should I try to take back other parts of Lordaeron? Well, definitely not Tirisfal Glades. That would almost be a declaration of war, and no matter how much I want to see that Banshee bitch and her undead minions gone from the face of Azeroth I can't afford that right now. _

_Should I try to strike some sort of deal with the survivors of Stromgarde? There aren't enough of them to fully rebuild their kingdom, but_ I can help._ They have land that can be easily converted to farmland once the Syndicate and trolls have been chased off. The elementals will require more thought, but, damnit, I want to reclaim the territory for the people of Stromgarde. They were highly valued in the original Alliance._

_Would it be possible that the Wildhammer dwarves would share some of their territory? Getting the Wildhammer on our side would be a good decision anyway. The Alterac Mountains and Hinterlands fall mostly under their jurisdiction. The furs and meats we get from the area are needed by the dwarves farther south—not to mention my people—and the gryphons they train are the best in the Eastern Kingdoms. Unfortunately, neither area is particularly good farmland, but they provide a doorway to Horde-controlled lands farther north and west. _

Varian fought the steady ache forming at his temples.

_Light-damned _Horde.

The intelligence he had received regarding his enemies had been both disturbing and vague. His operatives couldn't get a hold of any solid information, since most of the people, including those in the military, knew little to nothing about what the upper-ranks were doing. All that was certain was that things were distinctly _un_certain.

_I hope they all kill each other for me. Save me _one_ trouble._ Varian let out a long, slow breath of frustration. _Never easy._

Varian caught sight of a gnome walking by and had to fight to resist the desire to rub his eyes.

_Light, and then there's _them._ The dwarves are getting worried about keeping such volatile creatures as the gnomes in their city—and rightfully so. Mekkatorque has approached me about taking back Gnomeregan and his ambassador has been heavily petitioning for Stormwind's aid._

Varian shifted on his feet. _Again, work for my soldiers but not the common folk. What can I barter with the gnomes for lending them Stomwind's strength? Most of their inventions are too unstable to be of immediate use..._

But, gnomes were members of the Alliance, so he would _have_ to lend a hand.

_Light, can't I get good news for once?_

Varian took a covert deep breath before turning his mind to other problems in the Eastern Kingdoms.

_I have no idea what to make of the Thorium Brotherhood. They are-but-are-not Dark Iron dwarves, and with it appearing the Moriya will be returning to Ironforge with her infant in tow, it might be necessary to bring the Brotherhood over to our side._ _Stormwind needs allies desperately. _

_The Burning Steppes and Searing Gorge are both important sources of ore that we can't do without. If adventurers can endear themselves to the not-Dark-Iron-dwarves, then I sure as the nether can. Well, ambassadors I choose can. I doubt that _I'd_ be able to._

_Then there's the ogres and orcs and black dragons who disrupt trade lines and the safety of travelers in the Badlands. Problems! Always problems and _never_ solutions._

_It's times like these that I want to go back to being a gladiator. I didn't have to deal with paperwork and logistics and the well-being of thousands of people then._

Varian glanced over the Ironforge-dwarves territories and shifted on his feet.

_The dwarves are having problems of their own, especially politically. I can't get involved in that—the Wildhammer, Dark Iron, and Ironforge dwarves will have to figure out what to do with each other on their own. _

Varian's eyes drifted to Hillsbrad and a scowl briefly crossed his face.

_We _must_ secure Southshore. That is the only human port in the area, and therefore deserves all the protection I can possibly afford. If I could chase the Horde out, it would also provide good farmland. It used to be…_

Varian looked quickly away to Silverpine Forest and Gilneas.

_Silverpine is securely in the hold of the Forsaken, and I _still_ can't get into Gilneas. That stupid wall of theirs and the reefs that surround the territory has made it impossible to get to them. If only Greymane…! _

Varian's gaze drifted back down to his realm.

_And then there's the Swamp. The Horde is thoroughly entrenched there, and far, far too close to Redridge. While the Swamp, the Pass, and the Blasted Lands don't have any vital trade goods, they're a steady source of _problems._ Demons still escape through the open Dark Portal and the Pass is a gate for both the Swamp and Lands into Duskwood—not to mention the Tower that looms over the area. The _last_ thing I need is Duskwood to be overrun with undead _and_ demons_ and_ worgen_ and_ Horde._

Varian's eyes drifted to Stranglethorn and his lips twitched slightly.

_Booty Bay. The trade-point of every illegal object possible. Best to ignore it. _

_The Vale itself is responsible for herbs, fruit, pelts, and fish. There's no way that it could ever be converted for human use. The dark magic of the trolls' will keep the wilderness wild no matter what efforts may be enforced anyway._

_So, where does that leave matters?_

"Anduin, where do things stand, as of now, in the Eastern Kingdoms?" Varian asked aloud, and his son jumped in surprise at his father addressing him. "The short version, please."

"Westfall is doing badly, the Forsaken are being aggressive to the north, disturbing rumors are coming from Gilenas, political upheaval is occurring in Ironforge, and the orcs seem to be gearing up for an invasion from the Swamp of Sorrows. Not to mention the vocal concerns of the Earthen Ring and Cenarion Circle and a surge in Twilight Cult activity."

_Damn, forgot about those._

Varian took one last look at the map before him and he forced tension out of his shoulders. "Has there been any inquiry into the reports and rumors coming out of Gilneas?" Varian addressed his other advisors.

Varian already knew that the answer was 'Not really,' but he knew that an explanation would come afterwards in an attempt to show him that matters were being taken care of.

"That would be a question more for the Kaldorei ambassador. Should I ask for her presence?" Mithras Ironhill inquired.

Varian crossed his arms and focused on Gilenas.

_Perhaps it would be good to hear it from her directly._

"Do it."

As the peon walked briskly away, Varian sighed inwardly.

"You sure you don't need a break, father?"

Varian looked over at his son and smiled faintly.

"Maybe I should," Varian sighed. The headache that had been threatening earlier had bloomed and, while he could ignore it, he had headache medicine in his chambers that he could _really_ use.

Varian took a temporary leave and allowed himself a moment of weakness to rub his temples in an attempt to suppress the pain as he walked towards his chambers.

_I should dictate more things, but if I do that, things don't get done—or if they do get done, they get done badly, and the last time I trusted anyone with any substantial part of my kingdom, it was manipulated by a thrice-damned _black dragon.

Varian nodded to a guard that was patrolling near his chambers before he opened the door and stepped inside, a long sigh escaping him.

Varian found the vial of headache-suppressant that was created for him and took the dose before sitting in his chair.

He grimaced and rubbed his eyes, allowing the mask to slip, exhaustion and cares catching up with him.

_And my troubles don't end with the Eastern Kingdoms and Outland—there's still Arthas. Still the offensive in Northrend._

The campaign had ground to a halt, it seemed. Even with the best efforts of the Ebon Blade death knights, the Argent Crusade, and adventurers, Icecrown was proving a tougher fight than predicted.

_And there are conflicts with the Horde there, in Icecrown and elsewhere._

The reminder of the Horde in Northrend made Varian's lips pull back in a small, tired smirk. _Although there is _one_ good thing about Northrend._

Varian still had no idea why Garrosh had done what he did, but he _was_ grudgingly grateful. It was because of him—and some timely intervention on a paladin's part—that he wasn't enthralled to the Lich King. While the…incident…was far from common knowledge, enough people knew that he had disappeared into the forsaken wasteland for a little while to make them watch him carefully, poised for any signs that Icecrown had left any lingering effects.

It was why he now spent most of his time in the Eastern Kingdoms.

His headache subdued somewhat, Varian pushed away from his desk and stood. A letter from the Argent Crusade caught his eye and he picked it up, turning it in his hands.

_It must have been delivered today. I don't remember it being here before—and it's marked urgent. _

Varian frowned and placed the missive back down. _If it were truly, desperately urgent someone would have handed it to me. I'll read it once the day is done._

Varian sighed and pushed himself to his feet.

_I should go back to meet the Kaldorei ambassador,_ he thought as he pulled his exhaustion to heel. _I need to know whether or not the rumors are true._

Varian let his hair down and re-tied it in its horsetail, the almost automatic motion comforting. He readjusted his armor and cloak before stepping out into the world again, falling back into his public persona.

_I'll survive this day. I'll survive this headache, and Stormwind will survive Northrend, the Horde, and anything else that comes its way._

Varian vigorously toweled his hair dry and another towel was slung low on his hips as he walked over to his armoire, feeling content and energized after a little fury-specialization practice and the following bath that had worked any potential soreness out of his muscles.

The day hadn't been easy. After the tactical meetings, petitioner after petitioner that he could do nothing for had seen him, and he hadn't wanted to say that he was as strapped as they were, since they wouldn't have believed him. Running three campaigns at once consumed more resources than it generated.

He promised help to Darkshire, but the help always got lost along the way, waylaid by any number of things, and those that did make it to help the Night Watch were far from useful.

He promised help to Redridge, but the orcs and gnolls were numerous and bothersome and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't uproot them—they were like a particularly nasty weed that, no matter how deep he dug, just refused to be destroyed.

He thought he had succeeded in Westfall, but the trouble he had removed had caused another, perhaps more dire, one to take its place. It was the petitioners that came from Westfall that left him feeling worst. But he couldn't apologize to them—they would find no solace in the words.

The veterans from the Outland campaign haunted him. They were people changed, unable to find their place in the world that they used to call home. Most returned to Outland after only a few days back in Azeroth or went to Northrend, seeking some new form of strangeness to replace the nightmares that plagued them.

Varian rubbed his eyes. "Light," he muttered. "Never easy."

He pulled out some clothes and tossed them on the bed before he retrieved leather armor out of a different drawer.

With his life, armor of some sort was always necessary, but sleeping in plate was far from comfortable.

He heard a knock at his door when he was pulling his wet hair back and frowned.

_Who would come and search me out at _this_ time of night? It has to be, what, 2 in the morning?_

"Come in," he called out, and the door opened slowly.

"Dad?" Anduin asked hesitantly as he entered the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

"What's wrong?" Varian asked. It was unnerving to see his son so obviously worried.

"Y—dad!" Anduin half-yelped and turned away, which made Varian frown.

"Anduin?"

"Put some clothes on!"

Varian couldn't help the laugh that escaped him and did as demanded, putting on his undergarments and the shirt and pants that he used to prevent chaffing from his armor.

"Better?" he asked, a suppressed laugh in his voice and Anduin turned around, his cheeks still slightly red.

"Light, dad, _really_?"

Varian shrugged. "They're my chambers, aren't they?"

"Yes, well…" Anduin sighed and scratched his head.

"Now, why are you here?" Varian prompted.

Anduin pushed past his embarrassment and his mien became more somber. "You haven't been eating lately."

Varian's frowned at the statement. "Of course I have been."

"Dad, the last time you actually touched any of the food on your plate was a week ago."

_Really_?_ Damn, I've been distracted with rumors of sentient worgen._

"I _have _been eating. I've had things here and there," Varian answered evasively and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Not enough to survive on," Anduin replied. "You're losing weight."

Varian balked. "I am not. Look—my clothes fit fine," he said and gestured to his body. "I've just been training a lot."

Anduin shifted on his feet. "How much sleep have you gotten recently?"

"Enough," Varian answered vaguely, puzzled by the jumps in topics.

"Dad, you've been looking pale. Are you sick?"

Varian shook his head, annoyance blooming. "I feel perfectly fine, Anduin. You don't have to worry about me."

"Dad…" Anduin pleaded. "You…I watched you today."

"And?" Varian had felt his son's regard, but hadn't put it together as Anduin watching him with the eyes of a healer.

Anduin took a deep breath. "Over the course of an hour, you breathed three times when you weren't talking."

Varian blinked.

_Shit._

"Dad, that isn't _good_, you should be _dead._" Anduin walked quickly over to Varian and stood an arm's length away. "You should be dead, but I _know_ that you're _alive_, which should be…impossible_._"

"I am _not_ undead," Varian snarled quietly.

"Then what's going on…?"

Varian ran a hand through his hair, a scowl forming on his face. He _hated_ being reminded of his…situation.

"Anduin, it doesn't affect my abilities as a king, so it's nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about?" Anduin half-exclaimed in incredulity. "Dad, _you should be dead._"

"But I'm not," Varian replied. "You said that I'm alive and you are a priest, so you should be able to tell these things."

"Dad, that's not the _point._ It's not good _in general_ to barely eat, breathe, or sleep. Other people will start noticing that something isn't right, and that'll only cause suspicion and give your enemies ammunition."

"I slipped this once_,_" Varian said shortly. "It won't happen again."

"'This once'?" Anduin exclaimed. "How long have you had this?"

"It doesn't matter," Varian replied and walked over to his desk.

"Dad, _yes,_ it does," Anduin replied ferverently. "I don't want to lose you!"

A tense silence fell thickly between them, and Varian broke it with a gusty sigh.

"You won't," he asserted.

_You can't._

"How can I know that for sure?" Anduin demanded. "Dad, _please_. Tell me what's wrong!"

"No," Varian answered flatly.

Anduin blinked, surprised by the finality of the answer.

"You will not lose me. You don't have to worry about my health. I'll be _fine_ Anduin. This is nothing."

"Dad…"

"Anduin."

Varian winced inwardly as Anduin stiffened in surprise at the severity of his voice, but Varian _really_ didn't need anyone finding out about his _condition_.

"As your father, I ask you to leave it alone."

"But, since you _are_ my dad, I have a right to be concerned about your well-being. Something like this happened before—when you became partly S-Scourge."

"This is different," Varian snapped. "I am _not_ Scourge. At all. I have absolutely no connection to the asshole who skulks up in Northrend and I have no control over the undead. I _am not_ undead."

"Then why aren't you breathing? Why aren't you eating or sleeping?"

"That is not your concern, Prince Anduin Llane Wrynn."

Anduin jumped at the use of the formal address and stared at his father.

It took him a moment to recover before he said, "As the heir to the throne, I need to be concerned about the current king's well-being in the interests of the citizens of Stormwind. If their king is ill, then he cannot serve his people."

"I'm _not_ sick," Varian growled.

"Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing!" Varian repeated heatedly. "I'm alive, I'm not sick, and I'm in control of my mind. Stop worrying about me and focus on your studies. You serve Stormwind better by mastering the Light than fretting about my health."

"You think I'll have to use it against you?" Anduin half-exclaimed.

Varian's eyes narrowed. "I didn't say that and you will never need to. We live in a dark, dangerous world, Anduin. You need to be as strong as possible, and since you're not one to be dragged out to the training ground and hit over the head with a stick until you learn to block correctly, you'll have to do the magical equivalent."

"I'm a _healer_."

"Healers still need to protect themselves—perhaps even more so than any warrior, as healers are responsible for the well-being of others as well." Varian sighed. "I don't want to lose you. You _need_ to learn to protect yourself as my sole heir, and to protect yourself you need to be strong."

Anduin frowned slightly. "Why _am_ I your only child? Why haven't you taken another wife? Even as a child, I wouldn't have held it against you."

Varian rubbed his eyes. It was an issue that had been brought up innumerable times by a great many people. "Most nobles in the age-range I'd feel comfortable with are male, which precludes being able to have any children."

"Oh," Anduin answered lamely.

"Thankfully, there are a few young women around your age in the noble families—not like they allow them in Stormwind, though," Varian half-growled. "They claim that the city isn't safe."

Anduin sighed faintly, which sent a spike of guilt through Varian.

"You have friends among your colleagues, right?" Varian asked hesitantly. He'd been keeping distant watch on his son's progress, but refused to smother his child. Varian's constant watch would make other people nervous, and that wouldn't do.

"Yes, but…it's hard for them to forget."

Varian scowled inwardly. _If only Greymane hadn't been such an ass and walled off his people. I believe he has children. It would be good for Anduin to see and interact with other royals._

There was a small silence before Anduin sighed. "You really aren't going to tell me what's wrong."

"Because there's nothing to tell," Varian replied.

"Dad…look at it from my perspective. You're the only father I have. What did it feel like when _your_ father died and you were powerless to do anything?"

Varian flinched. _Why must he be so smart? It isn't fair._

Varian's shoulders slumped slightly and he pushed around papers on his desk.

"Anduin."

"Yes?"

"I am as well as I will ever be. But if you ever catch me forgetting to eat, tell me. Not that you will catch me again." Varian fixed his son with a look. "Now, what are _you_ doing up at 2 in the morning?"

Anduin rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I have an exam tomorrow and haven't gotten in as much studying as I would have liked. I was studying about the respiratory system, which reminded me about you not breathing, which reminded me of how you look pale, which reminded me you hadn't been eating, which made me conclude that you were probably not sleeping either," Anduin replied.

Varian sighed in distant amusement. "Go back and study, Anduin. Can't have the prince of Stormwind failing an exam, can we?"

Anduin smiled crookedly and made a sound of protest when Varian ruffled his hair and used his head as a fulcrum to turn his son towards the door.

"Go."

"But—"

"Anduin."

"But, _dad_!"

"I can work on little sleep. I've been doing it since I was younger than you, thanks to the filthy green skins that razed my home. But _you_ need to study so you can do well and get a little sleep before the test. I know that trying to spar while half-asleep was—and is—a terrible idea, and I can't imagine that healing half-asleep would be any easier."

Anduin hesitated, then sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "You won't tell me what's wrong."

"It's nothing that can be fixed," Varian replied and nudged his son towards the door.

"You're certain?" Anduin asked as his hand rested on the door.

"Yes."

Anduin opened the door before looking back at his father. "Take care."

Varian grimaced once the door closed fully and ran a hand through his damp hair.

"Light…"

As guilt coursed through him over the deception of his son, he found himself thinking. Remembering.

One of the things that constantly haunted him was the knowledge that he had nearly betrayed everything and everyone he loved. The knowledge of his _weakness._ Even though years had passed, it still stung.

Varian hated how impotent he had been. Every thought, every motion had been directed by another. He had been a passenger in his own body, suffocated by a dark power that left him helpless.

It had been a terrifying, humiliating experience. No matter how hard he fought, he could _feel_ the magic binding him, mind and soul. He had struggled against his own demons, had been caged by all the quiet insecurities he carried within him, and had felt true _despair_—the only other time he had felt such consuming agony was when he had realized, truly _realized_ that he had no home. Stormwind was razed by frenzied green-skinned monsters and his father was dead at the hands of someone he had trusted, who had been exactly like the filthy creatures that had killed so many of his people. The insidious whispers that he had learned to ignore, that said that should have been able to _do_ something, not run away like a coward had been overwhelming, and he had _hated_ himself.

He had learned to deal with the quiet guilt, but when it was given voice again, when the horror he had endured as a _child_ was resurrected, the hate that he had felt for himself was renewed, augmented by reminders of all the times he _failed_—when his wife had died, when his own people had turned against him, when he allowed a black dragon to take over his court.

But then Garrosh had arrived.

Not that he had initially known it was Garrosh. He had simply sensed the smallest crack in the binding and had lunged for it, craving any way outside of the torment. He had slowly worked the thin break wider, and fought for every inch against the depression and darkness that dragged at him. Pain he could distantly feel was an anchor, a reminder that there was something outside the dark prison he found himself trapped in, and that memories were nothing but that—memories.

"_Struggle. You will lose_."

Those words had given him a solid handhold, especially when he recognized the speaker and could distantly feel Garrosh's body pressed against his own. Every hand-to-hand touch gave him something to latch onto, and by the time Garrosh had the audacity to demand his submission, Varian had wrenched a substantial amount of control back, enough to control his mind, if not his body.

All it took to begin to reclaim control of his body was Garrosh's _obvious_ intent to strip him, and the deep, smoldering heat in the orc's eyes. It had made Arthas sneer at the paltry demands of living flesh and had made Varian ache in _need_.

Every deliberate, painfully intimate contact had allowed Varian to focus more on Garrosh and his own physicality, so when Garrosh _finally_ began to take him, it obliterated the last vestiges of Arthas' hold on him, wiped away the dark magic and restored breath and life to a body that had been so close to irrevocably dead.

Varian had never thought that sex could be so _good_. Even the slightest reminder made his skin prickle. He could _still_ recall the first time that Garrosh had forced him to relinquish his body and control, could clearly remembered how every burning touch, every painful thrust into his body that claimed him as belonging with—not to—the orc. He remembered how the sex had anchored him, centered him, and solidified his hold on reality and _life._

Varian shifted in his chair and shivered as the briefest tingle of memory crawled across his skin.

_Oh, Light,_ he breathed inwardly. _I _hate_ him._

The hate didn't matter, though. Not when Garrosh touched him in all the right places that left him breathless, nor when he managed to break the orc down and make him _beg._

Varian let out a shuddering breath, trying to ignore the heat that was pooling in his stomach.

_Just took a bath,_ he reminded himself, but the phantom sensation of Garrosh's hand dragging down his back made his breath hitch. An unfortunately clear recollection of how Garrosh's tusk had brushed roughly against his neck made him swallow hard and scowl at a corner.

_He shouldn't…why…why can I never stop thinking of…_

Varian's head tilted back and he glared at the ceiling above him.

_It's not right that's he such a good lay,_ he thought sullenly as his body gleefully reminded him of how it felt to have Garrosh pressing down on him, covering him, claiming him.

_I _have_ to find a reason to go to Northrend._

His gaze fell on the unopened Argent Crusade letter and his eyebrows snapped up.

_I may have just found an excuse._

He walked to his desk and unfolded the letter with one hand and read it. As he read, a malevolent smirk slowly twisted across his face.

He placed the letter down, took out an official set of stationary and quickly penned a response. There was no need to consult with anyone else as to the correct action—who was he to deny the personal attention of the King of Stormwind when the offensive in Icecrown had _finally_ breached Arthas' most inner sanctum?

He signed and sealed the letter and placed the reply in a prominent position so he wouldn't forget about it.

_If we know how the offensive works, this will also demand the attention of the Warchief. And as Thrall brings Garrosh with him, Garrosh will be there._

Varian's expression slipped into one of salacious anticipation as he planned all the wonderful, terrible things he would do to a particular Overlord.

**Author post-note: **If you want to know what might have gone on between chapter 9 and 10, well...there are things called smut that I've written elsewhere for your perusal.


End file.
